


The Poor of God

by branwyn



Series: Chivalry [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Severitus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 98,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is poisoned by a Potions experiment while protecting Snape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in consequence of the missive

Snape welcomes the chill of the dungeons at this time of year, when the air outside is still thick with summer heat. Compared to the close, over-heated atmosphere of the infirmary, his quarters are downright comfortable. No doubt this is why he feels such relief at returning to them and escaping the hospital wing at last. It has nothing to do with not wanting to face Potter when he woke up, or the shame and anxiety he endured while sitting nearly two hours by the boy's bed, waiting for his return to consciousness. Snape's ears are still ringing with Poppy's lecture on the interactions between the valerian in painless sleep draught and the belladonna extract in Skele-Gro. He had known perfectly well what would happen if the boy didn't drink the mugwort elixir in time to neutralize the excess soporific, a knowledge that rendered Poppy's harangue even less palatable than it would otherwise have been. The boy had been in his charge—Snape had allowed himself to be distracted, and Potter had paid for it, after an already trying day.

Not that Snape's day has been much better.

It is almost a pleasure to sink into his usual post-dinner routine of marking papers. A little harmless venting in the margins of the Hufflepuff first year essays on hellebore is just the thing to take his mind off the events of the afternoon. Snape loses himself in the work for a few hours; it is nearly time for him to finish up and prepare for his nightly patrol of the corridors, when he hears the sharp crack of Apparition that usually denotes the arrival of a house-elf. He looks up from his desk, but no one, elf or otherwise, is in the room with him.

Then his eyes fall on a roll of parchment, now lying atop a stack of books on the low table before his hearth. He is quite certain it had not been there a moment ago.

Standing, Snape steps around his desk towards the table and snatches the parchment up. He breaks the brittle wax seal with a deft gesture and unrolls the parchment with a snap of his wrist.

He recognizes the handwriting immediately, though he has never seen it in a non-academic context before. But why has Potter written to him? There had been nothing in his own letter that had called for a response—unless the boy truly is as dim as he had intimated and Granger had not been available to interpret the information the letter contained.

Intrigued despite himself, Snape starts to read.

Dear Professor Snape, it begins.

Thank you very much for the missive you conveyed to me earlier this afternoon. I was most appreciative of the information you were gracious enough to bestow on me. I apologize for my laxitude in not soliciting the pertinent details of your interview with my uncle when we spoke previously. It is borne in upon me that you must have had other tasks of higher priority which you set aside for my convenience and I would be remiss if I did not extend my gratitude for your solicitousness.

Snape stares down at the parchment in his hands, feeling his lips twitch in burgeoning amusement. Missive? Laxitude?

A whim seizes him; he scans the lines again, counting, and comes up with five words of four syllables or more. This time a snort of laughter escapes before he can contain it. Clearly, his jab at Potter's vocabulary has been interpreted in the light of a challenge. How...entertaining.

Snape sinks into the armchair behind him, smirking, and leans back to enjoy the rest of Potter's awkward adolescent ire in leisure.

The letter continues:

I also wish to thank you for your consideration with regards to the matter we discussed after class today. My own behavior cannot have failed to communicate my initial reluctance to relate the particulars of the situation, but if I had known how you would react I think I would have been less reluctant. It was very kind of you to heal me; I had almost forgotten what it was like not to be in pain. I know that you would rather have sent me to Madam Pomfrey directly, but your ministrations enabled me not to be embarrassed when I did see her. I know that I reacted badly at the time, but I really am very grateful for everything you did for me today. All those things I said about Professor Dumbledore were really stupid and you were right to make me talk to him. So thanks for that too.

By the time he pauses again, the smirk has slipped from his lips. That paragraph, Snape reflects, was rather less amusing. Disturbing is a better word for it—how the stiff, badly rendered formality gradually gives way to language that is more natural, more sincere sounding, at the same time that the sentiments expressed convert from mere perfunctory courtesy to something more revealing. He has no doubt that the gratitude the boy expresses is genuine, pathetically so—as though he is truly surprised that Snape (or anyone) would take the trouble to relieve any part of his suffering. But then, it is all in accord with the boy's behavior from the moment his injuries were revealed. Clearly, he has learned to accept cruelty as a matter of course; common decency, much less kindness, has been the exception in his life.

Snape stares reluctantly at the remainder of the page. The prospect of delving even further into the miasma of Potter's damaged psyche does not fill him with enthusiasm, but he feels a sense of obligation he cannot ignore. He continues reading.

Please know that I have disposed of your communication in accordance with your instructions, and that the other item you included will similarly be treated with the greatest of care and used only as you have directed. It means a lot to me that you would give it to me. I hope I won't need it, but knowing me I probably will. I feel safer having it and knowing you are looking out for me despite how little I've done to deserve it. I know what you're probably thinking, but I won't use it as an excuse to be reckless. It would be very ungrateful of me to put you in danger by pulling a stupid stunt and getting in over my head—so I won't.

One last thing—I know you said it was stupid, but I really do want to apologize for my uncle being rude to you, since you never would have had to see him if not for me. Thank you again for everything.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

Well, Snape thinks, after a moment of rather stunned thoughtlessness. What am I to do with this?

It is his own fault, he realizes, once he has sorted through the conflicting emotions inspired by Potter's artless confessions. He should never have written to the boy. Doing so cemented an attachment that would otherwise have flickered and died, had he merely walked out of the hospital wing that afternoon and treated the boy the same as ever in his next Potions class. Had he stopped to consider his actions, he would have been able to anticipate the effect they would have—after all, he knows too well the vulnerability that arises when secrets so deeply kept are forced into the light. Potter would have bonded with a watering-can, had one been Charmed to speak to him with a modicum of compassion after his ordeal of the afternoon. But Snape had not stopped to think. He had seen nothing beyond the boy's need, and his own foundering helplessness in the face of it.

Fifteen years ago Snape made a vow to Dumbledore, and to the memory of Lily Evans, to protect her child. Over and over again, he has failed to do so. All his vigilance had not been enough to prevent Quirrell, Crouch, Pettigrew, and the Dark Lord himself from laying hands on the boy. And yet, Snape has always told himself, Potter is alive, relatively happy, and well-adjusted, so what does it matter? For a time, it had been a kind of comfort.

But the bitterness had grown all the while—as his failures added up, as one chance at redemption after another had eluded him. He had taken it out on the boy, indulged his frustration every time Potter crossed his path, placating his conscience with the knowledge that his cover was perfect, no enemy striking at Potter would expect Snape to be watching over him. If it was more than a cover, that was no one's business but his own. He is entitled to his anger.

And somewhere along the way, while looking out for Potter, he had ceased to look at him. The most he could see through eyes perpetually narrowed in dislike was that the boy's resemblance to his father had only increased over the years. He never looked Potter in the eyes if he could possibly help it.

Perhaps that was his real mistake.

He ought to have known. He should have stopped for a moment and wondered why the boy returned to school every year thinner than when he had left, or where he had come by all those odd flinch reflexes, or what was fueling the almost desperate self-reliance that made him think he had to slay basilisks singlehandedly.

But he hadn't done any of those things. He had reclined in his ignorance and allowed Lily's child to return each summer to Petunia Durlsey's house without a second thought. And now that he knows what he has done—now he understands the true shape of the dangers that threaten the boy—he cannot turn away.

Lily's eyes in Potter's face have haunted him since the day the boy first set foot in Hogwarts, but he had never again thought to seem them look upon him with trust.

As damnation goes, it is not unpoetic.

Sighing, Snape lifts his hand, summoning a self-inking quill and a roll of parchment towards him—and begins to write.

Much to Harry's relief, he is out of the infirmary in time to catch the last few minutes of breakfast that morning. He looks like a completely new person; all his bruises are gone, and though he still feels tender and sore about the ribcage, Madam Pomfrey has assured him that his bones are completely healed. He makes his way for the Great Hall, feeling quite cheerful. He can move without pain for the first time in over a month, and the Dursleys are never going to pick on him again. The sunlight streaming through the windows along the corridors seems brighter than usual, somehow.

Ron and Hermione are nowhere to be seen; doubtless they have already come and gone. Just as well—Harry hasn't got enough time to both chew and talk. He takes a seat near his usual spot at the end of the table—when suddenly there is a 'pop' somewhere in the vicinity of his left elbow.

"Dobby?" he says automatically, and glances around him. But the house-elf is nowhere to be seen.

There is, however, a tightly furled scroll of parchment lying on the table next to his plate, where nothing but the fork had been before.

Bemused, reaches down to unroll it. Dense, familiar black script meets his eyes.

Dear Mr Potter, it begins.

Your apology for your inattention is noted and accepted.

Your apology for the comments regarding the Headmaster is likewise noted, but unnecessary. Ridiculous as your apprehensions were, you had some reason for them. If you know yourself to have been mistaken, that is enough.

Your apology for your uncle is disregarded as I need no further evidence of your thickheadedness than I already possess.

I accept your gratitude for the expenditure of my time, but I refuse to be thanked for treating your injuries. I dislike repeating myself, but as you were suffering the effects of an overdose of sedative during our last conversation, I will remind you that you are perfectly entitled to common human decency. Your gratitude would be offensive did I not know you are entirely too accustomed to your most basic needs going unmet. If I may tender a bit of advice, Potter—look inside yourself and find the outrage you have buried. Only when you know in your heart what you truly deserve will you act to acquire it.

Likewise, I refuse to accept your gratitude for the item I conveyed to you. I was merely restoring to you what was already rightfully yours.

For your assurances that you will hereafter temper your daring with caution, I expression my own thanks, as I have no desire that either of our lives should be risked needlessly.

And for your unfortunate bout of unconsciousness this afternoon, I offer my own apologies. Madam Pomfrey entrusted you to my care, and if I had been properly watchful it would not have occurred.

Sincerely,

S. Snape

P.S. I do not know what outdated dictionary of Muggle slang you have been consulting, but "laxitude" is most certainly not a real word. "Laxity" is the appropriate nominative form of "lax". It has not the same polysyllabic cachet, but in these cases it is more impressive to be correct.

Well, thinks Harry. That was just...weird. An entire page of writing, and only one blatant insult—and if you read between the lines, it isn't really much of an insult at all.

Ron is never going to believe this.

Harry scans the letter again quickly, looking for instructions as to how he ought to dispose of it, but he finds none. There isn't really anything incriminating in the note, he supposes, unless you counted the fact that Snape was being kind to him. In the wrong hands, that sort of information could be dangerous enough; the last thing he needs is for Malfoy to go running to his father with tales of how Snape the supposed Death Eater is cozying up to his master's mortal enemy. But Harry finds himself strangely reluctant to destroy the letter. The idea that Snape might regard him with something other than loathing is still so unbelievable that if he incinerates the evidence, he might end up doubting his own memories.

I'll hide it, Harry decides. I'll stuff it down at the bottom of my trunk. There's no way Malfoy can get into Gryffindor Tower without people noticing, it'll be safe there.

"Hello, Harry," says a voice from behind him, startling him out of his reverie. He turns and finds Luna, smiling at him. Her long blonde hair is loosely secured in a messy knot at the back of her head, exposing her long slender neck and making her eyes appear even larger than usual. There is a hint of shadow under the lower lids, giving her a strange air of fragility that is promptly belied when she plops down onto the bench next to him and reaches for a piece of toast.

"Hi," he says, returning her grin.

"You look much better," she says. "How do you feel?"

"Loads better," Harry assures her. "Good as new, really."

"I'm glad," she says, and takes a bite of the buttered bread. "You looked so unwell yesterday. I was so worried I couldn't sleep."

Harry stares at her, hardly knowing what to say to this. He ought to be used to it by now—she's always saying things that leave him speechless and struggling with intense feelings he doesn't know how to express. It must have something to do with the odd knack she has of revealing her vulnerability without betraying the faintest hint of self-pity. Harry always seems to find himself torn between admiration and the desire to protect her. Bit silly, really—he knows better than anyone that Luna is quite good at looking after herself.

Suddenly, it occurs to him that of all his friends Luna is the one person he could talk to about this strange new development with Snape without being disbelieved or forced into a defensiveness he's still not comfortable with. He sits up straight and picks up the letter.

"Listen," he says, moving a bit closer to her so there's less chance of being overheard. "You know what you were saying about Snape yesterday? Well, I reckon you were on to something, have a look at this." He hands her the letter. She receives it with an expression of deepest interest and begins to read.

"Well," she says, handing the letter back to him when she has finished looking it over. "That was quite sweet of him, wasn't it?"

"Sweet" is definitely not a word Harry is prepared to use with regards to Snape just yet—or ever. "It's definitely weird," he says, folding the letter carefully and sliding it into an inner pocket of his robes.

"Oh, I don't know," says Luna, pouring a cup of tea from a nearby pot. "He's always been very kind to me."

"Seriously?" says Harry before he can stop himself. He's never thought about Snape and Luna together in any way, but if he'd been asked to guess, he probably would have thought that Luna's wilder flights of fancy would elicit some of Snape's cruelest mockery. Judging from the slightly starry look in Luna's eyes, however, that is not the case.

"Well, there's a difference between nice and kind, isn't there?" she says vaguely. "I don't think Professor Snape is a very nice person. But last year he stopped some seventh year boys who were hurting me, he was quite fierce with them. And afterwards he took me to the hospital wing. I'd twisted my ankle and he let me lean against him." She takes a thoughtful sip of tea, and adds, "I think he dislikes bullying rather a lot."

This extraordinary piece of information produces a bewildering tide of mixed emotions in Harry. Snape, Defender of the Downtrodden, is not a concept he is prepared to confront quite this early in the morning, so he puts it from his mind in favor of frowning at Luna. "Who was it?" he demands. "What did they do to you?"

"Oh, some boys from Slytherin, I didn't know their names. One of them threw me against a wall rather hard. Professor Snape expelled him." Looking quite unconcerned, Luna rises from the bench. "We'd better get going, or we'll be late."

"Oh," says Harry, who hasn't quite recovered from the conversation. "Right."

They gather their bags and exit the Great Hall together. Harry finds himself noticing the way people look at Luna as they walk side by side down the corridors towards the wing of the castle where Harry has first period Transfiguration and Luna has Charms. Most people, he discovers, look past Luna as though she isn't there, but a few of those who do seem to see her smirk quite unpleasantly as she walks by, as though she were wearing all her clothes backwards, or smelled badly.

She doesn't, of course. She smells quite pleasantly of laundry soap and...Harry sniffs the air surreptitiously. Sea salt, of all things.

"Are you going to write back?" she asks him, as they near the corner where their paths diverge.

"What? Oh. Um. I hadn't thought about it," Harry confesses. "But...yeah, actually. I think I might."

"I think he'll like that," she says, smiling, then disappears down the facing corridor without another word.

Harry watches her go for a moment, then ducks into the door of the Transfigurations classroom, wondering vaguely how many points he's going to lose for Gryffindor when Snape reads what he has to say.


	2. felicitations

When Snape discovers the letter rolled up inside Potter's essay on Befuddlement Draught at the end of his sixth year NEWT class the following afternoon, it is all he can do to keep from groaning aloud.

He had observed Potter closely all during class, especially during the hour he spent working over his cauldron with Ron Weasley, and had been pleased to note that, apart from a slight stiffness on the left side of his body, the boy gave every indication of being well-mended. Snape had chosen not to examine his relief at this discovery in any depth. It is entirely too early in the day for soul-searching and disquieting revelations.

He had intentionally refrained from acknowledging Potter in any way during the lesson. He hadn't so much as looked at the boy when he turned in his vial of Hiccoughing Solution. He cannot be seen speaking gently, or even neutrally to him, and he had not had the nerve to berate him a mere twenty-four hours after yesterday's breakdown. Potter, for his part, seemed to understand this; he had not attempted to catch Snape's eye or give any other indication of what has passed between them. At least not where Draco Malfoy could see.

But then, at the end of class, he had lingered after most of the other students to hand in his essay, and for the tiniest instant Snape's eyes had flickered up to meet his. Potter had extended the roll of parchment across the desk towards him, then dropped his gaze to look at it for a second, then looked back up at Snape with a meaningful waggle of the eyebrows. He'd left without actually saying a word. And Snape had discovered the note tucked into the scroll five minutes later.

Now Snape finds that he can't bring himself to pretend to have misunderstood He pinches the square of notepaper between thumb and forefinger, and, tensing in anticipation of another long, emotional screed, he holds it up to the light.

He is relieved to find that Potter's oversized scrawl fills less than half the page.

Dear Professor,

Don't feel bad about me passing out, I reckon if I hadn't been distracting you with a lot of pointless questions both of us would have remembered I was meant to drink that potion.

And if you'll excuse me saying so, sir, I think we both know that common decency isn't quite as common as it ought to be. Lots of people put up with worse than what the Dursleys ever did to me, and if other people didn't assume otherwise maybe they'd be quicker to notice when people around them are being badly treated. I don't want to offend you by acting surprised you would be kind to me, but I also don't want to take kindness for granted—so I am grateful to you, whether you want me to be or not.

And maybe you're right that I should be angry with the Durlseys. It's just that I can't help seeing it from their point of view a little. Even when I was a kid I had a power they couldn't understand. Most people who have power misuse it. How were they to know I'd be any different?

I can't believe you found my soldier, or that Uncle Vernon would actually show you my cupboard.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

P.S. Don't laxitude and laxity have the same number of syllables, even if laxitude's not really a word?

Snape blinks down at the letter in his hand. It is...not what he had expected.

He hasn't got the time to ponder the contents, however, before he hears a rap at his office door. Snape looks up to find Dumbledore entering; before Snape can so much as greet him, he has turned and cast a silencing spell over the room.

"Headmaster." Snape nods to him, then makes a show of busily organizing papers on his desk. He doesn't know why he bothers—it's not as though the man ever considers Snape's schedule when he wants something out of him.

"I trust you are quite recovered from the events of yesterday, Severus," Dumbledore says without preamble, striding into the center of the room.

"Recovered?" Snape drawls. "I? You seem to be forgetting which of your charity cases spent the night in the hospital wing, Albus."

"My memory is quite as sound as it ever was, thank you," Dumbledore returns. "For instance, while I recall asking you to answer a few of Harry's questions before dinner last night, I was a bit concerned when you never appeared at dinner at all. In fact, Madam Pomfrey informs me that you lingered in the infirmary until well after 8 o'clock."

"It was necessary," Snape informs him stiffly.

"I am glad you thought so," Dumbledore says, and Snape turns away to hide the gritting of his teeth. "Were you able to fully satisfy Harry's curiosity?"

"That feat is not in the scope of human accomplishment," Snape says immediately. "But I gave him the details he required."

"And were well-thanked for your trouble, I am sure." There is a hint of a smile about Dumbledore's mouth.

Snape looks up quickly, a suspicion seizing him. He stares at Dumbledore through narrowed eyes. "Was it your idea, then?"

"Was what my idea, Severus?"

Snape seizes Potter's note and rattles it in the Headmaster's face. "That Potter appropriate me for his...penpal!" he seethes.

Dumbledore's expression is carefully, pleasantly blank. "I do enjoy a good correspondence," he says. "Rather a lost art in this day and age."

Snape does not trust himself to reply. He shuffles and reshuffles the Ravenclaw second year essays on essence of murtlap rather more noisily than strictly necessary.

"Have a seat, please," says Dumbledore, perching himself atop the worktable opposite Snapes's desk. "I need to speak with you. I have...a proposition."

"Oh?" says Snape, stiffly. He does as the Headmaster tells him, seating himself upon the wooden stool behind his podium, waiting for Dumbledore to get on with it.

"It regards the request I made of you yesterday afternoon," Dumbledore replies. "Concerning Harry."

Who else? Snape does not quite dare say aloud.

"I have business with Harry this year," he continues. "I shall be...supplementing his education. The matters I have to lay before him are complex, and will require all the attention he can spare from the conduct of his day to day life. In the interests of assisting him in that endeavor, I wish to eliminate one of his distractions."

"Well, no doubt the Gryffindor Quidditch team will manage without him," Snape says easily, ignoring for a moment his surge of curiosity as to the subject of Potter's private tutelage. "The respite from continuous visits to the hospital wing alone should expand his leisure time considerably."

Dumbledore smiles broadly. "Excellent try, Severus," he says. "But I had something else in mind."

"Well, I am all attention."

"During Harry's Potions class on Friday, I would like you to stage an incident."

"An incident?" Snape's eyebrows soar to his hairline. "Of what kind?"

"Oh, the sort that usually occurs whenever you combine easily distracted teenagers with volatile potion ingredients. An exploding cauldron, perhaps? Or maybe something less incendiary. I'm sure you can arrange the details so as not to risk serious injury to any of your students."

"If it is a brewing mishap you require, I doubt I shall have to try very hard to produce it," Snape says. "The odds are excellent that one will occur with no intervention from me. But what purpose will it serve?"

"I am coming to that," Dumbledore says. "Now: whether or not it is plausible—indeed, the less plausible the better, perhaps—you will find a way to blame Harry for what has occurred. You will be quite vicious, even for you. Take as many points as you like, I will find a way of returning them later." Dumbledore's eyes grow distant, considering. "A few detentions may be in order as well. And a great deal of ranting. The ranting is quite the material point. Nobody observing you should be left in the slightest doubt of your feelings for Harry. You have free reign to be quite as unpleasant as you possibly can."

Snape blinks at him, feeling as though the world has shifted on its axis. "You do realize," he says, "that my birthday is not until January."

Dumbledore laughs. "Yes. Well, do take every opportunity of enjoying yourself." The Headmaster's eye grows a bit steely. "I intend it is the last such incident that will occur."

"You intend to tutor Potter in Potions?" Snape arches an eyebrow. "Safeguarding my classroom against future effects of his incompetence?"

"No," says Dumbledore. "I do, however, intend to tick you off publically first thing Monday morning for your unfortunate display of temper. I may hint at a sacking in your future, if you can't manage to leave Harry in peace. Of course, you will have to ensure that your behavior is offensive enough to warrant so severe a reprimand. I, ah," Dumbledore pushes his spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose, "trust you will have no difficulty seeing to it."

"You flatter me." Snape's nostrils flare and his mouth tightens.

"As you will have perceived already," Dumbledore continues blandly, "the purpose of the exercise is to provide you with an ironclad excuse for ameliorating your treatment of Harry in future—one that even your closest observers will find plausible. You will comply with my instructions with much glaring and gnashing of teeth, but you will comply, and no one will think it odd."

A long moment of silence falls between them after Dumbledore finishes speaking. Snape studies his feet, and then his hands, and then the polished grain of the wood of his lectern.

"I suppose," he says finally, "that, in your eyes, the indignity I will suffer from a public dressing down is a small price to pay, if it insure Potter's comfort."

Dumbledore gives the impression of fighting a smile. "I was rather thinking you would find it a small price to pay for the chance to fully vent your spleen for once, with no restrictions whatever," he says. "As for indignity, I will do what I can to minimize it. I rather think a great deal of furious whispering followed by a choice outburst on your part will do the trick admirably."

Snape allows his thoughts to run forty-eight hours ahead of him, when Potter's class will meet again. Two days ago he would have had no difficulty whatever coming up with things to say to the boy—would have felt a delicious warmth, imagining the look on Potter's face as he said them. He finds that imagining Potter's expression is still quite easy, but the thought of seeing it no longer fills him with anticipation.

"Do you..." Snape considers his choice of words carefully. "Intend to warn Potter ahead of time?"

Dumbledore leans back and clasps his hands in his lap. "A good question, Severus. He is no thespian—and yet, one feels he has been quite distressed enough..." He spreads his hands. "What do you suggest?"

"We—Potter and I—have had several exchanges of a—personal nature, since yesterday afternoon." Snape wonders if Dumbledore finds it as remarkable as he does that the words do not stick in his throat as he speaks them "If he believes I have betrayed his trust after all that, he may react unpredictably, speak indiscriminately. What is more, now that I know—that is to say." Snape clears his throat. "I have sufficient regard for my own honor to find the idea of appearing to Potter in the character of his uncle...distasteful."

Rather to Snape's relief, Dumbledore does not react to this confession with a benevolent smile, or a kindly twinkle of the eye. He looks quite as grave and serious as Snape has ever seen him; still, he fancies that he sees the light of approval in Dumbledore's expression somewhere.

"In that case, I believe I can safely leave the matter to your own discretion," Dumbledore says. "You possess the singular knack, much to be desired in a spy, of sifting through competing priorities and choosing the least of all possible evils—I trust you to look after Harry's best interests."

Dumbledore rises to his feet and turns for the door; years of habit have Snape rising automatically with him.

"But then" says Dumbledore, as with a wave of his wand he releases the wards and the silencing spells at the door and reaches for the latch, "I always have."

Letter from Severus Snape to Harry Potter, dated 3 September 1996, delivered by owl to Gryffindor 6th year boys' dormitory, received by addressee at 10:27 p.m.

Mr Potter,

You are correct. I accept your thanks in the spirit they were offered.

Perhaps your relatives are not evil so much as profoundly stupid. Common sense should have inclined them to treat you kindly, if only so you were never tempted to take revenge upon them. They certainly had neither cause nor right to expect you would be so forgiving.

I required Vernon Dursley to satisfy my curiosity in the matter of the cupboard. He was understandably reluctant—are you by any chance claustrophobic?—but yielded to persuasion.

Snape

P.S. The incident which will occur during class on Friday does so at the Headmaster's directive, for reasons which will become plain at a later time. You are expected to act your part, as I shall act mine. Employ what little subtlety you possess, and do not mistake appearances for reality. -S.S.

Letter from Harry Potter to Severus Snape, dated 4 September 1996, delivered by Dobby, a free Elf, to High Table in the Great Hall, received by the addressee at 7:15 a.m.

Professor,

Not really. I rather liked my cupboard. They left me alone when I was in it. Though I'd have liked it better if the locks had been on the inside.

And I'm not so forgiving as all that, really. I'd have liked to see how you "persuaded" Uncle Vernon.

Harry

P.S. I really don't understand your post script, Professor, but—I'll try? -HP

Letter from Severus Snape to Harry Potter, dated 4 September 1996, delivered by Tilly, a House Elf, to the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, received by addressee at 1:09 p.m.

H—

He squirmed like a toad in the early stages of vivisection.

—S

P.S. Get Miss Granger to explain it to you. Or Miss Lovegood, perhaps—she is not a Ravenclaw for nothing.


	3. we tender our sincere regrets

Harry wakes up on Friday morning with a headache of the kind that always follows a night of bad dreams and thrashing about in bed. Unpleasant as it is, the headache is quickly overshadowed by a strange feeling of apprehension he cannot immediately remember the source of. Not until he has rubbed the grit from his eyes, and the drool from his mouth, and stumbled blindly into the loo, does he remember the letter he received from Snape on Wednesday evening—and by then the apprehension has blossomed into faint nausea.

The fact that he has received a reply to every letter he has written to Snape over the last three days is quite strange enough by itself. But the mysterious post scripts Snape has been tacking on to the end of the last few letters have elevated the whole situation, in Harry's mind, from "a little odd" to "completely bizarre". Snape has warned him to be prepared for an "incident" during Potions today—and two days after receiving the warning, Harry still has no idea what sort of incident Snape means. He had started to bring the subject up with Hermione more than once on Thursday, in accordance with Snape's advice, but had stopped himself at the point of bringing it up each time. He knows he can't talk to Hermione about his letter-writing thing with Snape unless he tells Ron too, and Harry doesn't quite feel up to having that conversation with him just yet. He expects Ron will come around once he's actually read the things Snape has been writing, but there isn't time to go into all that with him before sixth period today. Therefore, if Harry wants to prepare himself before entering the lion's den at three o'clock that afternoon, he has to find Luna—fast.

Harry showers, dresses, and slips quietly out of the dormitory while Ron and everyone else is still fast asleep. He heads down the staircase into the main wing of the castle, fishing in his pocket for the Marauders' Map as he does so. Scanning the tiny writing and the hundreds of names that crawl along the surface of the Map, Harry finally manages to find her—she is two corridors away, headed for the Great Hall. Relieved, Harry turns a corner and scurries down the halls until he spots a familiar head of long, ash-blonde hair bobbing behind a cluster of Hufflepuff fourth years; she clutches a number of books beneath her right arm, and carries a heavy, overstuffed canvas bag over her left shoulder. Harry breaks into a trot, trying to catch up to her—but just as she is about to round the next corner and pass out of his sight, a burly Ravenclaw boy that Harry does not recognize comes barreling from the opposite direction, clipping Luna hard on the shoulder and knocking her off her feet. She falls backwards, arms wheeling, and lands on the stone floor in the midst of all her books and what looks like half the contents of her bag.

The boy stops for a second and looks down at her, frowning. "Watch where you're going, why don't you, Loony," he mutters, then continues down the hall.

Harry swears under his breath and pushes his way through the knot of Hufflepuff girls, who have stopped to stare and giggle at where Luna has fallen. The burly Ravenclaw accidentally meets his eyes as they cross paths; Harry directs a fierce glare at him, and the boy blushes.

"Luna—" Harry reaches her at last and kneels beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right? I saw what happened—"

She looks up at him and blinks, as though for a second she had not quite recognized him. "Harry," she says. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," he says, still holding on to her. "Who was that prat?"

"Jeremy Bishop," she says. "He's not a prat, really, I think he was just embarrassed. People make fun of him for being a bit clumsy." She inspects her scraped and reddened palms with an air of casual interest. Harry looks over her shoulder, eying them in concern.

"D'you want to go to the hospital wing?" he asks.

"Oh no," she says, lowering her hands and beginning to gather up the books that have spilled out of her bag. "I'm quite all right."

Harry helps her retrieve her possessions, then stands up and grabs her wrist to pull her to her feet.

"Stuff like that seems to happen to you a lot," he says, frowning.

"Sometimes," she says, nodding. "It's been better so far this year, now the old seventh years are gone. And now people know you talk to me sometimes, so they leave me alone more often. They think you're my friend, and everyone knows what Gryffindors are like about their friends."

"You are my friend," he says, a little more fiercely than he means to.

Luna beams at him. "That's very sweet."

"Not sweet," he says, taking the books out of her sore hands and tucking them under his arm. "Just a fact."

Together they set off towards the Great Hall. They walk in silence at first; the scene he's just witnessed is bothering him so much that for a moment, he nearly forgets why he wanted to see Luna in the first place. It is Luna herself who eventually turns to him, tilting her head curiously. "Why were you looking for me?" she says.

"Oh, yeah." Harry glances around at them quickly; there are too many people nearby to speak in detail. "I wanted you to have a look at something for me..."

The hour is still early; when they reach the Great Hall they find it nearly deserted, so Harry has a seat with Luna at one end of the Ravenclaw table. This draws a few odd looks, but no one says anything to Harry about it, so he pulls out his Transfigurations textbook and withdraws the folded sheaf of letters.

"I wrote back to Snape, like you said," he tells her, handing the papers over. "What's weird, though, is that he started writing back to me." He points out the letter with the mysterious post script he'd received Wednesday night, and when she has finished reading that one, he indicates the place in the fourth letter where Snape had suggested consulting her or Hermione. Luna beams when she reads it.

"What a lovely compliment," she muses.

"Yeah, but what's he on about?" says Harry, trying to restrain his impatience. "What kind of incident does he mean?"

Luna frowns thoughtfully down at the pages. "Well," she says slowly, "there's not enough information to tell, really, is there?"

"That's what I thought," Harry says. "But he made it sounds like there was some—some secret code to it that only smart people could figure out."

"You're quite smart, Harry," Luna says earnestly.

"Not smart enough for Snape, apparently," he says, with a rueful smile.

"Well, he's a cranky bugger, isn't he?" she says, looking down at the letters again. "I think perhaps Professor Snape didn't mean you to figure out exactly what was going to happen."

"What was the point of the note, then?" Harry frowns.

"You can see what he's written, here?" She points to a line in the middle. "He uses the word 'act' twice, and he underlined it once. I think that's the important part, he wants you to know that, whatever the incident might be, it's not real."

Harry frowns, considering this, and reaches for a platter of sausages. The nausea has begun to fade, now he's finally talking with someone about the letter. "So when he says 'act', he means like—in a play?"

"Yes, I think so," says Luna. "He'll be playing a part, and he wants you to play a part too. Also, he wants you to know that you can trust him, because it was all Professor Dumbledore's idea, and he'll explain after it's all over.

"Right," says Harry, chewing his sausages thoughtfully. "Only, I don't understand how he expects me to act the part the right way, if I don't know what I'm meant to be playing at."

"Well," says Luna, "I expect it's something he thinks will come quite naturally to you. Otherwise he'd have given you more information."

"I suppose so," says Harry. He is still slightly doubtful, but it's definitely the best explanation he's got—better than any of the ones he's come up with. He smiles at Luna, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude towards her, then glances down and notices the empty plate in front of her. "Aren't you eating?" he says, surprised. "I didn't mean to keep you from breakfast."

"No, I don't think I'll eat this morning," says Luna. "My tummy's still a bit sore from falling over." Harry looks at her in alarm, but she continues without seeming to notice. "I don't eat breakfast very often anyway. I just come to the Great Hall in the mornings because the other girls don't like me hanging around the dormitory while they're there."

Harry frowns. Suddenly, he doesn't feel much like eating either—his stomach is twisted with the same annoyance he'd felt earlier, helping Luna up in the corridor. "I don't like the way people treat you," he says flatly. "Don't the teachers know about it? Can't Professor Flitwick do anything?"

Luna smiles, rather vaguely, and reaches for the teapot and the jug of cream. "It's not that bad, really," she says. "I hardly noticed it until I met you and Hermione and Neville and Ginny—you were all so nice to me."

Harry finds that this does not settle the irritable twisting in his stomach, but, before he can say anything more on the subject, his attention is diverted by the large brown school owl that is swooping towards him, carrying a letter in a long envelope in its beak.

"That's weird," he says, extending his arm so the owl can perch there, away from the breakfast dishes. "I wasn't expecting any letters—I hope it's not one of people from Witch Weekly again."

Luna has finished mixing her cup of tea; she sits, sipping it quietly, as Harry inspects the envelope. It's the Muggle kind, plain white paper, not parchment, and there is a stamp in the upper right hand corner. A suspicion seizes Harry suddenly. The letter has definitely traveled through Muggle post; he takes a closer look at the postmark, and finds himself sighing. "Wonder," he says.

"What is it?"

"I don't know, but I think I know who it's from."

Luna frowns over the rim of her. "Do you think it's bad news?"

"I don't see how it can be any other kind," he says glumly, and slices the envelope open with a breadknife.

As soon as he sees the salutation, he knows his fears were correct. At least the Dursleys have never learned how to send Howlers, Harry thinks—then begins, with the utmost reluctance, to read the letter from his uncle.

Potter— it begins.

Of all the ungrateful, deceitful little snots ever born to burden a respectable family, you are the worst. HOW DARE YOU set your freaky little friends on us? If I'd guessed half the trouble you were going to bring on our heads, I'd have kicked you to the curb the moment you landed on our doorstep. I'll bet when you were spinning your little tale of woe, you never bothered telling them at that school about the snake you set on Dudley, or the flying pudding, or blowing up Marge, or Dudley's tail, or any of the rest of the misery you've heaped on us. Easy to play the victim, isn't it, Potter? You know perfectly well that we did our best for you and got nothing but trouble for it, and if you're not ashamed of yourself there's no help for you. You never got a knock from me you hadn't bloody well earned, and you know that's the truth too.

Come back next summer, if you must, and bring a freak along if that's what it takes to keep your lot off our doorstep in future, but the moment you turn seventeen you had better head for the hills, boy, because I've had it, understand? Here's hoping you meet up with Lord Whatsit before time. Threaten me or my family again and I might drop him a line myself.

—V. Dursley

Grunnings

Harry doesn't know how long he has been sitting there, staring at the letter, unable to reread it but unable to look away, until he feels Luna's hand covering his. He blinks and looks up at her; there is an expression of mild concern on her face.

"All right?" she says.

Harry swallows past the knot in his throat, then quite calmly folds the letter up and sticks it in his Transfiguration book with the ones from Snape. "It's fine," he says, turning back to finish his breakfast. "I was wrong. Nothing new in it at all."

Between his lingering trepidation over what, precisely, The Incident is likely to entail, and the queasy feeling that returned to his stomach the moment he parted ways with Luna (a queasiness that worsens every time a particular line or phrase from his uncle's letter flashes through his memory) Harry feels nearly unwell enough to consider asking to be excused from Potions altogether. But, considering that whatever is about to happen was the Headmaster's idea, it is most likely important, and thus he is quite sure that any plea of his to be spared will fall on deaf ears.

"You're very quiet, Harry," says Hermione, walking between him and Ron towards the spiral staircase leading down into the dungeons. "Is your side still hurting you?"

"Huh?" says Harry, realizing he had only half heard her. "Yeah—I mean, no. It is, a little, but not much." He shrugs. "Didn't sleep that much last night, that's all."

"Nightmare?" she asks, in a tentative voice. Harry nods.

"I never heard you," says Ron, frowning at him.

"I don't always scream," Harry mutters, as they turn the corner and file through the door of the Potions classroom.

As soon as he sets foot inside the dim room, Harry tries to make eye contact with Snape, but if his teacher is conscious, either of his presence or his scrutiny, he gives no indication. He seems strangely tense, however; his face rather more lined and weary than usual. Harry takes his seat, feeling extremely wary—as though explosions are likely to go off at any moment.

As it turns out, this isn't too terribly far off the mark.

"Today you will each make an individual effort to brew a substance known as the Draught of Waking Dreams," Snape informs them, in a fast, dismissive tone that promises a high level of irritation and a short supply of patience during the next hour and a half of the lesson. "Those of you who occasionally deign to crack the covers of your Potions textbooks," Snape's eyes come to settle directly on Harry, whose mouth feels suddenly dry, "and did not worm your undeserving way into my advanced classes through some sort of trick, should not find the brewing beyond your capabilities."

Snape pauses for the briefest of instants after this speech. His eyes remain fixed upon Harry. His nostrils flare delicately, and his lips quirk upwards in an extremely unpleasant smile. Studying the expression, Harry begins to feel the way he imagines a rabbit might, after it has been chased over field and stream for many miles and come at last face to face with the hunting hounds.

"Instructions," Snape continues, "are on the board. Ingredients are in the cupboards. There is to be absolute silence in this classroom as you work. I will regard either the giving or receiving of aid as cheating and punish it accordingly." His eyes light on Harry again, then dart to Hermione, before growing shuttered once more.

The class sits still and silent, waiting for further instruction. Snape gets to his feet. "What are you waiting for!" he roars, the sudden change in volume so unexpected and startling that several of the girls shriek. "Get to work, all of you!"

Harry nearly trips over the legs of his desk in an effort to get as far away from Snape as humanly possible without actually leaving the classroom.

"Honestly," Hermione hisses in his ear once they are both settled at the work table they share. "What in the world is he even thinking? The Draught of Waking Dreams is far beyond NEWT level, it's only cleared for use by researchers in the highest levels of the Ministry!"

"Sounds like he wants us to fail," Harry whispers back.

"Well, what's the point of that!" she says, sounding outraged. "Is he a teacher or not?"

Snape's voice sounds from the front of the classroom, cutting across any reply Harry might have made. "Thirty points from Gryffindor, Potter," he intones, sounding bored and slightly pleased. The rest of the students make noises of shock, and, in Ron's case, outrage, at disproportionate number of points—thirty points for whispering in class is excessive, even for Snape. "You were instructed to remain silent."

Harry feels as though his heart has plummeted into his shoes. Unwillingly, his thoughts stray to the tiny bundle of letters stashed between the pages of his Transfiguration text; he wonders vaguely what has happened to the man who had written them.

Harry works with feverish concentration for the next hour, checking and rechecking the instructions against the list on the blackboard. Hermione is right; it is quite the most fiendishly difficult Potion Harry has ever had to brew, with more than thirty steps and two dozen separate ingredients, all of which must be added at precisely regulated intervals, two of which must be Transfigured into different ingredients after they have been added to the cauldron, but before they have touched the surface of the liquid, and one of which they must conjure into existence using a spell in Old German that Harry hasn't got the faintest clue how to pronounce, much less what sort of wand movements it requires. He watches Hermione closely out of the corner of his eye and copies her gestures as closely as he can, and, by dint of more effort than he has ever exerted in a classroom exercise before, he finds near the end of the lesson that his potion is the correct shade of aquamarine.

Harry catches Hermione's eye and nods towards his potion with an inquiring arch of the eyebrow. She peers over his shoulder into his cauldron, then meets his eyes with an approving smile. Harry sighs in relief and feels the muscles of his back and neck relax a bit in what feels like more than a day. It lasts until he spots Snape, heading for the back of the classroom to inspect their work, at which point his anxiety surges into life again. Judging by the mood he is in, Harry suspects Snape is far more likely to be irritated by Harry's success than he would be by failure.

Snape strolls between the worktables, clucking here, sighing there, and once—when he reaches Ron's work station—actually giving a loud snort of laughter. Harry waits nervously as Snape passes Hermione with barely more than a glance at the pristine green-blue surface of her potion, then comes to pause just behind Harry's shoulder.

Harry looks up automatically, watching Snape's face closely. For the briefest instant, he is almost sure he sees a flicker of astonishment, even pleasure, in Snape's dark eyes—but it is gone so quickly, replaced by a smile of gleeful contempt, that Harry is sure he has imagine it.

Snape turns his head to meet Harry's eyes, and steps between him and the cauldron, blocking it from view.

"Well, well," he says, in the softest, deadliest voice Harry has ever heard from him. "Mr Potter."

Harry swallows nervously and struggles not to flinch. Standing this close to Snape is difficult, while he's radiating such menace—it is all Harry can do to keep his eyes on the man's face and not on his hands, watching for a heavy blow out of nowhere.

"Sir?" he says.

"I believe I can safely say," Snape tells him, as though Harry is the only other person in the room, "that in fifteen years of teaching at this school, I have rarely been so surprised by a student as I am by you."

This is not quite what Harry had been expecting, but Snape's next words alleviate his confusion.

"From the first day you set foot in my classroom, brandishing that scar as though it were a jewel in the Queen's diadem, trailing the ghosts of your dead parents as though their reckless stupidity somehow sanctified you in ways undreamt of by ordinary mortals, I knew you were bound for nothing more than ignominy and mediocrity, bolstered by the adulation of the ignorant. But now I find," Snape folds his arm over his chest and touches his fingers to his lips, as though he is examining a rare artifact of some kind, "that you have managed to disappoint even my lowest expectations. I congratulate you, Potter. This is no mean accomplishment."

Harry feels suddenly as though all the air has gone out of the room. There is a heaviness and a gnawing pain in his chest, and the corners of his vision seem to burn white.

"I suppose you think," Snape continues, "that the rigorous academic standards put in place to insure that the dangerously ill-qualified do not gain positions of responsibility in the world have no bearing on you. Famous Harry Potter wishes to be an Auror, and what Famous Harry Potter wants, he gets. Never mind that people will die when you cannot distinguish the effects of a corrosive poison from a hex that reproduces the effects of one closely. No one will think to blame you for own incompetence. The families of your victims will no doubt consider it an honor to have sacrificed their loved ones to your ego."

Snape takes a step closer to Harry; he can feel the man's breath against the side of his face. "Will you speak at their funerals, Potter? Will you shake their parents' hands, perhaps use the copious Potter inheritance to establish an endowment for their children? Is that how you will sleep at night, by washing their blood from your hands with gold?"

The silence in the classroom is so thick, so absolute, that Harry is quite sure he can hear the blood pulsing in the vein at Snape's temple.

"Did the thing with the gold work for you?" Harry asks, hearing his own cold, trembling voice as though from a long way away. "Or are your hands still covered in it?"

For a moment there is an expression of such rage in Snape's face that all Harry's bravado, all his anger, deserts him. Instinct takes over; he rears back, throwing up a hand to shield his face from the blow he is sure is coming.

But Snape's eyes, which have not looked away from his, alter in their expression so suddenly that it is like seeing another person emerge behind them. Harry cannot identify the look he sees there; it has come and gone in an instant, but it is sufficient to make Harry lower the arm with which he is shielding himself.

Harry and Snape look at each other for a long moment before Snape speaks again.

"Lower your wand this instant, Weasley, or I shall have you expelled."

Startled, Harry turns behind him, to see Ron standing there, wand raised, a grim, set expression to his face. He meets Harry's eyes; Harry nods, and Ron slowly lowers his wand.

"Five hundred points from Gryffindor," Snape says. "And you will serve a month of detentions with me, Potter."

Harry does not have time to be dazed by the sheer enormity of that number before he hears the tell-tale rattling of the cauldron behind him.

There is a hiss—and a shriek—and then something boiling hot, and hard as iron, strikes him from behind. For the second time in the space of a few minutes, instinct takes over: Harry throws himself at Snape, arms flung wide to shield him from the explosion. The last thing Harry sees, before darkness claims him, is Snape's face, frozen in shock, then dissolving in horror, as droplets of perfect, aquamarine potion rain down around their head.


	4. in care of, part one

Author's Note: While I share the enthusiasm many of you have expressed for the good ship Harry/Luna, and while Harry's relationship with Luna is going to be extremely important to this story, I consider Ginny-bashing to be immature and offensive. Please don't do it. I might get tetchy.

God forgive me, Lily, Snape thinks, when he opens his eyes a few seconds later and realizes whose limp form is draped over his chest and covered in scalding potion. I've finally done it. I've finally fucked the whole thing good and proper—I've killed him...

"Professor Snape?" It is Hermione Granger's horrified voice, close to his ear, that brings him back to himself—reminds him that he has a classroom full of students still on his hands, in addition to the one on his chest.

He tilts his head to one side; Granger is kneeling on the floor beside him and Harry, hand tentatively outstretched, as though she would like to touch one or other of them, but doesn't dare try. All the rest of his students are standing at a distance, wearing identical stunned expressions—even the Slytherins, who clearly hadn't expected that finally being rid of Potter would mean losing their Head of House in the same instant.

"Find my wand," he whispers, quietly, so only Granger can hear him. "Please."

Granger stares at him for a moment, looking startled, before her eyes light up with comprehension and she disappears from his sight. Snape fills the eternity until her return by wrapping his fingers around the boy's wrist, touching the fingers of his other hand to the vein in his neck. When he does not find a pulse immediately, panic steals the breath from his throat—his vision starts to grey—but then he feels the thrum of Harry's heartbeat against his fingers, faint and thready but palpable, and if Granger weren't standing there with his wand at last he would probably betray himself before all and sundry by sobbing his relief into the boy's hair.

"Mobilicorpus." He points his wand at Potter's inert form as soon as Granger presses the wand into his hand; he would have simply gathered the boy up, but he doesn't dare touch him until he sees what the damage is. Free of Potter's admittedly slight weight, Snape gets to his feet and surveys the wreckage of his classroom, then the faces of his students. He sees rather too much fascinated curiosity behind the shock for his own peace of mind.

"Out," he says, hoarsely. "All of you, this instant. OUT!" Snape glances to his left and to his right. "Granger, stay with me. Weasley, go and—"

"You think I'm going to leave Harry alone with you when he's hurt?" says Weasley in a voice thick with incredulity, as the rest of the class files out the door, tossing interested glances at him over their shoulders. "After—after what you just did to—"

"Weasley, go now and fetch the Headmaster," Snape growls. "I am sure Miss Granger will stand as your proxy and insure I do him no harm. Go."

Weasley casts one last furious look at him, then at Potter, and then at Granger. She makes a small shooing gesture, and he spins on his heels, stalking from the class room.

"Clear the surface of the worktable, Miss Granger." Snape does not take his eyes from the limp body he is levitating. "We need a place for Mr Potter to rest."

Looking a bit rattled, but with a glint of steely determination in her eyes, Granger not only wipes the worktable clean of all brewing equipment and potion residue, but covers it in a thick, soft roll of white cotton bedding. Snape has no energy to spare for admiring her just now, but he stores this further evidence of her competence at the back of his mind, where it may come in useful some day. Careful to keep the movements of his wand smooth and even, he brings Potter's body to rest stomach-down on the bedding, exposing the mess on his back. Granger, getting a good glimpse of his injuries for the first time, lets out a small scream, muffled against the hand she's pressed to her mouth.

"It isn't quite as bad as it looks," Snape says quietly, unsure whether he is comforting the girl or merely thinking aloud."The burns are mere scalding, for the most part. Most of the harm was done by Potter's proximity to the explosion, but even that is less worrisome than..."

"Harry's potion was perfect." She cuts him off, obviating the need for Snape to finish his thought. "I know it was, I checked it—I didn't help him," she adds defensively, as though she thinks Snape's mind is actually on anyone's grades at the moment.

"I know it was perfect," he says tonelessly. "Which is why I added the lacewing fly. To render it inert."

"Yes, I know you did," she says, sounding near the edge of tears. "I saw you, I thought you were trying to sabotage his grade, so I—"

"So you added essence of rue," he finishes for her. "To correct the resulting imbalance and leave me with no choice other than to acknowledge the high quality of his work. It was cleverly done." Snape favors her with a wintry smile. "You could not have predicted how essence of rue would react with hellebore in a temporally modified, class two Transfigurative base. I myself did not know. As far as I am aware the effect has never been documented."

He is babbling, he knows he is babbling, but he seems to be powerless to stop his own mouth. "Congratulations, Miss Granger, you have successfully weaponized the Draught of Waking Dreams—you could have a publishing credit to your name before you even leave school. Of course, then I might find myself in a position where I have to explain why I neglected to obtain the leave of the Office for Proscribed Potions before I set my students such a task..."

Granger interrupts him a second time, now sounding nearly hysterical. "But why did you, Professor?" she demands. "It doesn't make any sense, it's several orders of magnitude beyond NEWT level—"

"Why, Miss Granger," says Snape, allowing himself the indulgence of a sneer. "I should have thought the reason obvious enough." The fit passes; he is suddenly too weary for sarcasm. "I set a potion for Potter he couldn't possibly brew, so that his failure would provide the impetus for my bout of temper. Clearly," he grimaces, "he possesses competencies he has never before seen fit to reveal in my classroom. His mother was a brilliant Potions student, I suppose I ought not be shocked. His timing is quite inconvenient, all the same."

"But what was the point?" Granger says, finally bursting into tears. "Why say such horrible things to him? He was just beginning to trust you, to like after you were so good to him on Monday—"

Snape's throat seems to seize up at the question. He has barely begun to process for himself all the disastrous ways his machinations have backfired on him—he certainly has no idea how to answer the girl, or even whether he ought to attempt doing so. But to his great relief, the Headmaster appears in the doorway at that moment, flanked by Weasley and Madam Pomfrey, sparing him the necessity of a reply.

"That, Miss Granger," Dumbledore tells her, "is a matter between Professor Snape and myself. I am sorry, but this is not the time for a full explanation." He strides up the room between two rows of desks, taking in the wreckage both of the laboratory and of Potter's body in one sweeping glance. "Severus, I presume you keep burn salves on hand."

"Of course," says Snape, mentally cursing his laggard thoughts—he ought to have remembered that straightaway, not stood dissecting the situation with Granger, as though Potter were merely sleeping and not in urgent need of treatment. "Accio aloe balm number three." The squat tub soars neatly into his hand; he presents it to Madam Pomfrey, who sets to work without a word.

"There is damage beyond the obvious," Snape informs Dumbledore, watching Pomfrey's deft, competent hands move over the boy's injuries from the corner of his eye. "He has been exposed to an unknown quantity of the Draught of Waking Dreams. Considering—" Snape's mouth is suddenly dry, as he remembers how Potter had thrown wide his arms—to shield him— "Considering his position at the moment of impact, it is unlikely that he ingested any of the Draught, but the effects of topical application are unknown. Given the extent of his burns, however, it is safe to assume that a full dose may have entered the bloodstream."

Dumbledore looks at him gravely. "Yes," he says, in a quiet voice. "That—complicates the situation."

Snape watches as the Headmaster's eyes grow distant for a moment—then, suddenly, he turns and strides to Potter's side, the heels of his pointed boots making hollow tapping noises against the stone floor of the dungeons. Reaching the boy, Dumbledore stands looking down at him for a moment, a sad and weary slump to his shoulders. Then, without a word, he reaches out and presses one bony, long-fingered hand against Potter's forehead. Closing his eyes, he lifts his chin—and the air around him seems to thicken and still. It is a long moment before he withdraws, looking, if possible, more troubled than before.

"He will wake shortly," says Dumbledore in a low voice, opening his eyes slowly, as though the light hurts them. "And then you must prepare him."

Snape opens his mouth to speak, but Weasley's voice, loud and brusque and bothered, bursts into the conversation suddenly.

"But what does it do, that potion?" Weasley blurts out. "Waking Dreams—does that mean Harry's going to wake up thinking all his dreams are real, or something?"

Dumbledore meets Weasley's eyes and nods. "Assuming it had been properly brewed, then yes. That is precisely what will happen." He looks inquiringly at Snape. "Was that the case, Severus?"

Snape fights not to flinch as he nods. "In reverse of my every expectation, I believe Mr Potter brewed the potion successfully."

"I see." There is no surprise in Dumbledore's voice, only resignation. He turns from Snape to Madam Pomfrey. "How is he physically, Poppy?"

"As well as can be expected," she says crisply. "I was able to heal the burns, though he'll need further treatment to prevent scarring. The impact from the cauldron didn't do his ribs any good, but there doesn't seem to be any new breakage. I can't treat the bruising until he's conscious and lucid, I don't dare tamper with the flow of blood." She shakes her head. "All in all, it could be worse—but he's in for a long convalescence. And I have serious doubts whether he should be allowed to play Quidditch this year, Dumbledore, one more hard knock to the rib cage and it may separate from the sternum."

Snape watches Potter's friends while Poppy recites her diagnosis, feeling somehow that this is the most appropriate penance he can do. Granger is perched sideways on the top of a desk, arms crossed over her chest, tears trickling down her face; Weasley looks as he is always does, save for his extreme pallor. Snape half expects a display of outrage at the news that Potter's Quidditch career is in danger—the loss of that activity, he imagines, will no doubt seem quite the worst blow that could befall the boy, in Weasley's limited imagination. But to his surprise, when Weasley speaks, it is on a different subject altogether.

"Isn't there an antidote to that Waking Dreams stuff?" he asks the room generally, glancing from Granger, to Poppy, then to Dumbledore.

Dumbledore seeks Snape's eyes for an answer—he is as much Snape's master in Potions as he is in everything else, but Snape's reading in the field has been more recent. But Snape can only shake his head. Dumbledore nods, and says, "No, Mr Weasley. I am afraid there is no antidote."

"But sir," says Weasley in an urgent voice, ignoring the silent by-play. "Harry's dreams—well, they're horrible. He has nightmares all the time—about You-Know-Who and Cedric and his parents and Sirius—and his uncle—you can't just let him go through that, sir, there's got to be something you can do."

If Dumbledore makes any reply to this, Snape does not hear it. He sinks onto a bench—and fights the urge to cover his face with his hands.

He hadn't spared so much as a thought for what Potter would suffer under the effects of Waking Dreams. Potter, of all people—no one had been meant to brew that potion correctly, not even Granger, that had been the entire point. And yet, here they are—and for all Snape's good intentions, it seems plain to him that he could not possibly have done Harry worse injury if he had thought it out with both hands for a week. The more he thinks on it, the clearer it is to Snape that the entire charade has done more evil than good. The boy had either never understood the warning in his letters, or failed to connect the warning to Snape's behavior, and Snape had not realized it until Harry had flinched away from him. Nausea had nearly overcome him, in that moment—just as it is threatening to do now, as he considers what role he is likely to play in the boy's nightmares, despite the lengths he has gone to restore some security to Potter's world.

It's just his bloody luck, really.

"I am not unaware that Harry—does not sleep well, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore is saying heavily, when Snape begins paying attention once more. "Unfortunately, the situation is further compounded by the fact that the infirmary is, as I understand it, already full to bursting with victims of the latest dragonpox outbreak. Is it not so?" he says to Madam Pomfrey, who nods. "Under normal circumstances, of course, we could simply find room for him, but for his own comfort, as well as that of the other patients—"

"Give him to me," Snape says hoarsely from where he sits. "I will tend him—in my quarters—you can take my classes for a week or so, Dumbledore—"

He seeks the Headmaster's eyes; Dumbledore nods. "I was on the point of suggesting it," he says, and there is a definite hint of approval there.

"NO!" Weasley startles them all by shouting and taking a step forward, bunching his fists. "You can't leave Snape alone with Harry, Professor—"

"Mr Weasley—" Dumbledore raises a hand to calm him, but Weasley barrels on heedlessly.

"You weren't there!" he shouts at the Headmaster. "You didn't hear the things he was saying to Harry, they were vile and evil—you ought to sack him—"

"Mr Weasley," Dumbledore interrupts in a loud, commanding voice—the boy falls silent, looking abashed. Dumbledore smiles faintly at him. "I understand your concerns, I truly do, but I must impress on you that things are not quite as they appear. If you," he raises his hand again, as Weasley opens his mouth again, "and Miss Granger will adjourn to my office, and wait for me there, I will be along in a few minutes—and then, I promise you, you will have a full explanation. Is this acceptable?"

Weasley flushes furiously, and seems to be on the point of saying no—but Granger, in yet another display of her customary intelligence, grabs his arm and cuts him off before he can get a word out.

"We'll go, Professor," she says.

"The password is 'Smarties'," he tells her, and a moment later they have left, Granger pulling a reluctant Weasley behind her.

"Now to business," says Dumbledore, turning back to Madam Pomfrey. "Can Harry be moved?"

"Physically, he's in better shape than he was Monday," she says, twisting her lip at Snape and Dumbledore in such a way as suggests she holds them responsible for the fact that Potter has ended up bruised, bloodied, and comatose twice in a single week. Well, she isn't wrong, exactly, Snape muses to himself. "As long as it's done gently, there's no reason he can't be transported to Severus' quarters."

"Very well," says Dumbledore. "I think, considering everything, the more quickly we can have Harry settled, the better. And then I shall have to speak with Miss Granger and Mr Weasley, otherwise you may find your quarters under siege in a few hours."

"They are not to attempt visiting him," Snape says. "His physical environment must alter as little as possible over the next few days, or his disorientation will be all the more difficult to control." Snape pauses, then admits, "nonetheless, I shall have to have some help watching him—he cannot be left to himself for a single instant, and however vigilant I may wish to think myself—"

"I shall arrange assistance," Dumbledore says. "Now, let us be on our way—Poppy, if you would?"

Madam Pomfrey raises her wand, pointing it at Potter; but Snape finds himself stepping in front of her. "No," he says. "Let me. Please."

She blinks at him, surprised—then nods. Snape points his wand at the bedding Granger had conjured underneath Potter, and Transfigures it into a stretcher, complete with restraints.

Levitating the boy and the stretcher off the remains of his laboratory worktable, Snape meets Dumbledore's eyes, and summons into his own all the penitence he can muster. Dumbledore gives him a tiny nod—the kind that says "I understand," rather than "well done"—and stands out of Snape's way, as he conducts the boy's prone form ahead of him, out the classroom door, and down the corridor toward his chambers.

When Harry opens his eyes, the first thing he does—after groaning aloud—is cast a quick glance around the room in an attempt to locate Uncle Vernon. This is the result of long years of habit—sometimes the difference between a cuff on the ear and a kick in the ribs is a matter of sheer nearness, or lack of it. Harry's glasses are gone, so he can only make out lights and shapes, but he doesn't see a towering, Vernon Dursley-shaped lump hovering anywhere nearby, so he allows himself to lie still and quiet for a moment, cataloguing the sources of the pain that seems to fill his entire body in dull, pulsing waves.

The longer he lies blinking at the dark, blurry ceiling, however the more...wrong the idea of his uncle being nearby seems. He decides to test it, since knowing is better than wondering, even if it does earns him a cuff on the ear—a new sort of pain, Harry thinks, might actually distract him from the one in his back, and that would not be a bad thing.

"Sorry, Uncle Vernon," he says out loud, dimly aware that, if Vernon really is nearby, the tone of Harry's voice is going to earn him a rather harder knock than usual. "For—you know, whatever it was I did this time. Can I go to my room now?"

There is rather a long pause—and then the voice that answers him is nothing like Vernon Dursley's, being more precise, more highly pitched, and infinitely more controlled than Harry's uncle's.

"Are you merely disoriented, Potter," it says, "or do you truly not remember what happened to you an hour ago?"

A moment later, as Harry is still trying to piece things together, the voice adds, "your glasses are on the table beside you."

Then and only then does Harry come sufficiently to himself to realize he is lying in a bed, not on the floor of the parlor, or any other room in the Dursley's house. There is a mattress beneath him, and pillows, and a blanket pulled over him to his chest. Harry extends a hand toward the table and locates his glasses by feel; when he puts them on again, a room resolves into focus around him.

He is lying beneath a counterpane of blue tapestried velvet, depicting an alternating pattern of thistles and roses. There are heavy curtains around him, hanging from a four-poster bed frame. The room itself is dim, save for the cheerful light that comes from the fireplace in the wall opposite the bed.

Definitely not Surrey, then. Judging from the stone walls, it looks almost like Hogwarts—but not any part of Hogwarts he's ever seen before.

"Got your bearings, yet?" says the voice again, a bit higher pitched this time, and slightly mocking.

Harry turns his head slowly—and find Severus Snape sitting in an armchair beside the bed, hands clasped in his lap. His dark hair is tied back from his face, and his outer robes have been removed, revealing a white shirt and black waistcoat and trousers beneath. The arms of the shirt have been rolled up, as though Snape is preparing for some sort of intense labor.

"Where are we?" Harry manages.

"Hogwarts," says Snape. "My chambers. You are in my bed." Snape gives him a wintry smile. "Try not to be dazed by the horror of the thing."

"'S a nice bed," says Harry, feeling quite muzzy. "Soft and all that."

Snape leans forward a bit and extends something to Harry. Blinking, he realizes it is a glass of water. Gratitude floods him; he reaches for it, and drinks half of it down in a single go.

"Why," says Snape, taking the empty glass back from him, "did you address me as though you thought I was your uncle?"

"I didn't," said Harry. "I didn't know you were here, I just...woke up feeling like I usually do after Uncle Vernon's been at me, I figured it was safe to assume he was around somewhere."

There is a distinctly sour cast to Snape's features, as though he has bitten into a piece of rotting fruit. "You speak as though you do not believe his abuse to be entirely a thing of the past. Was my letter unclear? The Headmaster has made alternative arrangements for your next summer in Surrey."

"Yeah, I remember," Harry says shortly, no longer eager to discuss the subject of letters with Snape. "I also know that whoever comes with me is going to have to sleep or go to the loo or take a shower at some point. I don't give much for my chances with Uncle Vernon when that happens, his letter was pretty clear he'd like nothing better than to run me down with a car again."

"Letter?" Snape's voice is strangely sharp. "You received a letter from Vernon Dursley? When?"

"This morning," Harry says, wishing fervently Snape would stop talking to him so he could concentrate on losing consciousness, or possibly dying. He really is extremely sore.

"Where is it? Let me see it."

"Why?" says Harry, not troubling to hide his irritation at the sound of the man's voice.

"Because I warned that insufferable Muggle what I would do to him if he persisted in harassing you!" Snape says loudly, leaning forward in his chair a bit.

"Letter's in my bag," says Harry, shutting his eyes, mesmerized by the rhythm of the pounding in his head. "In my Transfigurations textbook. You can keep it, long as you promise not to shout anymore, I think my head's about to crack down the middle."

There is a moment of silence-then a shuffling noise near his bed, and Harry hears the sound of what sounds like a cupboard door, opening and closing. He hears footsteps again, and then Snape's voice, close to his head.

"Here," it says. "For the pain. I apologize, I ought to have offered it immediately. You took a bad blow earlier."

Harry cracks an eye open. He can see Snape's hand, about an inch away from his face, clutching a small vial of amber liquid. He fumbles for it, but for some reason his fingers won't close around it properly. Snape pries his fingers open, and presses the vial against his palm

"Thanks," Harry says, and tips the vial into his mouth. Almost at once the pain begins to recede, like a thick, greasy carpet rolling backwards off his body. Sighing in profound relief, he opens his eyes again. Snape is watching him closely, eyebrows knit together, a hint of a frown about the stern mouth.

"So how did I end up here?" Harry says again.

Snape lifts his chin, looking almost worried. "You truly don't remember?" he asks. "You brewed the Draught of Waking Dreams in Potions class, and there was an accident—a cauldron exploded—you threw yourself in front of it, like the idiot Gryffindor you are, rather than take cover—"

"Right," says Harry, closing his eyes again, feeling suddenly quite exhausted. "Yeah. Remember that part. But why am I here and not the infirmary? Not that I'm complaining," he adds. He is far too tired to care whose bed he is lying in, so long as he doesn't have to get up in the next ten years, and he's spent quite enough time staring at the walls of the infirmary for one lifetime.

"Yes," Snape says, looking pained. "I—this is going to take a bit of explaining, Potter, and it is essential you listen to me closely, because we don't have much time. I'm afraid you're in for a few unpleasant days, but we might be able to make them a bit less unpleasant, if you can prepare yourself in advance. Listen to me carefully, and do not interrupt until I am finished, am I understood?"

There is a note to Snape's voice—something quiet, urgent, and intense—that reminds Harry a bit of the tone of Snape's first letter. As soon as he makes this connection, he wishes that he hadn't. It's too depressing—too infuriating to think how close he had been to trusting Snape, only to find that in reality he was twice as nasty as he'd ever been before making Harry believe he cared about him. It makes Harry feel stupid, like he's fallen for some elaborate joke staged at his expense.

"Is this going to be more about how my incompetence will get people killed?" Harry says, as coolly as he can. "Because honestly, sir, I think what I did to my godfather three months ago sort of drilled that lesson in already."

Snape's reaction is not at all what Harry expects. His shoulders slump, and he covers his long, sallow face with large, pale, hands—then lowers them again, and looks Harry in the eye. There is something defeated and unsettling about the man's hunched posture.

"I know you will not believe this, Potter, but I truly did not say those things to hurt you," Snape says. "I warned you to expect an incident out of the ordinary in class today—I thought you would know better than to take what I said at face value, but when you flinched from me I realized—" Snape breaks off, and when he speaks again his voice is strangely haggard. "Why did you not consult Miss Granger, if my letter confused you?"

"I talked to Luna, actually," says Harry, feeling a bit dazed by Snape's worn expression.

"And she was unable to penetrate the matter?"

"No, she seemed to get it," Harry mutters. "She tried to explain it to me, I just didn't..." He trails off, embarrassed. "Anyhow, how exactly is it out of the ordinary for you to take it out of me in class for no good reason?"

Snape's dark eyes flash strangely, before he averts his gaze. "Yes, I suppose I can see why you would be confused."

Harry looks away as well, and for a moment neither of them speak. Then Harry hears a rustling noise off to the side of the bed; he turns his face without lifting his head from the pillow, and finds that Snape has shifted his chair a little closer to the fire. The orange light plays against the side of Snape's face as he looks down at Harry; his dark eyes are glittering, and the set of his mouth is serious. He doesn't look angry to Harry, exactly, but there is nonetheless something frightening about having all that intensity directed at him.

"Potter, when that cauldron exploded, you were exposed to a full and effective dose of Waking Dreams Draught. Unfortunately for you, you brewed it perfectly—assuming we both live through the next few days, I'll be certain to assign you full marks for today's class."

Harry stares at Snape, then finds himself running his tongue around inside his mouth, as though thinking he might taste it still. What would something that color of blue taste like, anyway? Cotton candy? Blue raspberry? No, those are Muggle flavors—the wizarding world is more organic, their blue probably tastes winter rain, or sea water or something.

"How did I get—exposed?" Harry says. "I don't remember drinking any."

Snape's mouth wrinkles in an expression of distaste. "Thanks to the fact that you shielded me from the blast, your back was lain open like so much tenderized meat. Trust me on it. You were exposed."

"So..." Harry tries to rally his concentration. It is not easy; his head feels as though it has been scooped clean of brains and refilled with gelatin. "What does the Draught do? What's going to happen to me?"

Snape's voice promptly assumes the practical, detached tone Harry associates with his classroom lectures.

"In approximately one hour," he says, "you will begin to feel the full effects of the Draught. You are sleepy now, I presume? You will soon be wide awake, as though you had taken a stimulant. You will be aware of your waking state, and as long as you can maintain focus you will remember the information I have given you in this conversation, remember that you are suffering the effects of the potion. But as time wears on, this will matter less and less to you.

"You will dream. You will perceive your dreams as though they were real. It will not matter whether your eyes are open or shut; you will not be able to escape the images your mind has produced. All the thoughts, fears, and desires harbored by your subconscious will flood your conscious mind. If you can force yourself to concentrate, to test your environment, you will at first be able to distinguish between what is real and what you are imagining, but you will quickly become too weary, too disoriented, to maintain the necessary focus."

Snape falls silent, meeting his eyes uneasily. After a moment, Harry realizes he is staring at Snape in horror. He shuts his mouth, which had been hanging open, and looks away, towards the fireplace.

"That..." Harry takes a deep breath. "That doesn't sound like much fun."

Snape looks blank, but he shuts his eyes tightly for a moment before continuing. "The effects of the Draught will last two full days, during which time you will be unable to sleep. Physically, you will be capable of every other normal activity, but if you have ever tried to eat in dreams, you will know why that is no guarantee you will actually be able to sustain any nourishment. You will be incapable of reading. You may find that your body appears malformed to your eyes—that you have fewer fingers or toes than you should, for example. On the third day you will sink into a sleep that lasts another two days, during which you will not dream at all. When you wake, you will remember little, if anything, of what has happened, but you will feel—emotional. Aware, perhaps, of feelings you have repressed. You will experience abrupt mood shifts, a pervading sense of vulnerability. In time, however, all of this will pass. The Draught has no permanent effects. When it does," Snape's eyes glint with something like amusement, "you will have a week of bed rest to look forward to, as you recover from the non-magical injuries you sustained today. Throwing yourself in front of exploding cauldrons is not a healthy activity even when they are not filled with dangerous and volatile potions."

Snape sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers, regarding him seriously. "You must prepare yourself for a long, taxing, possibly even terrifying ordeal, Mr Potter. I, the Headmaster, and Madam Pomfrey will do everything in our power to ease you through it, but I fear there will be all too little we can do."

"Yeah," Harry mumbles. "I don't guess you can really interfere in someone else's dreams, can you?" He scrubs a hand over his eyes and tries to put the nameless anxiety building in his stomach into words. "Listen, Professor, are you sure—I mean, couldn't you put me somewhere by myself while the potion's still affecting me? My dreams aren't—well, let's just say you might get pretty tired of listening to them, before long."

Snape's nostrils flare delicately. He gets to his feet with an abrupt motion, and paces once up and down the length of the room. "What sort of 'somewhere' did you have in mind?" he says, his back to the fire. "Shall I locate a nice, cozy cupboard for your convenience?"

Harry flushes; Snape, on the other hand, looks rather pale. "I have had quite as much as I can take of your bullheaded heroism for one week already, Potter. You once paid me the courtesy of saying you did not think I was like your uncle. If you were not lying, you will cease flaunting your offensive assumption that I would prefer my own convenience to your dire need, and let me do my job—which, at the moment, is to preserve what I can of your health and sanity."

Snape's expression is so fierce, so angry, that Harry turns his head. "I just don't want you to see me like that," he mutters. "Don't want anyone to."

He cannot see Snape's eyes anymore, but when Snape speaks next, his high, drawling voice is a little softer. "I quite understand that, Mr Potter. However, you cannot be left untended for a single moment. You are far too likely to do yourself an injury. Incidentally, I am keeping your wand safe for you; when you awake on the fourth day, I will return it."

"Right," says Harry again. "Thank you," he adds.

"Your gratitude is unnecessary," Snape says immediately, and despite it all, Harry finds himself grinning.

Snape settles himself back into the chair by the bed, then, and his face is still unnaturally white. "I have something more to tell you," he says, in the same serious voice as before. "The Draught of Waking Dreams acts in such a way that whatever thought or feeling or memory is foremost on your mind at the time of exposure will set the tone for the kind of dreams you can expect while under its influence. That is how those who take it deliberately exert some measure of control over its effects." Snape's fingers tighten on the arm of his chair. "Unfortunately for us both, at the time of the explosion, you had just listened to several minutes of my more vicious invective. I cannot predict in precisely what way this will affect your dreams, but I fear it is safe to say the effect will not be a pleasant one. And it is the more complicated by the fact that, unlike any other figures you may encounter in your dreamscape, I myself will actually be here in the flesh. Contact with me may exacerbate your dreaming perception of whatever I represent to you—or it may ameliorate it. I cannot tell."

Snape draws a long breath, then releases it in a gusty sigh."My cruelty towards you in class today was part of a plan the Headmaster developed. He asked me to stage a public incident in which I treated you so infamously that he would be forced to chastise me for it in public. Everyone would then know that I had been forced to stop singling you out in class, in order to keep my position. Open hostilities between us could cease without jeopardizing my standing in the Dark Lord's service. Do you understand this? Can you believe that I was, however ineptly, attempting to do you a service?" Snape looks strangely uncertain, as though he thinks it is too much to hope for that Harry might understand.

But Harry finds that he does understand. "Maybe it's just because I was hit on the head recently, but yeah, actually. That makes sense." The relief that blossoms over his teacher's face makes Harry feel rather warm inside; of course, he might be hemorrhaging. "I just wish I'd been in on it—why couldn't you have just told me, without all that nonsense about coded messages and getting Luna to explain things to me?"

Snape sighs again; Harry begins to think he must be having trouble remembering to breathe regularly. "The Headmaster believed—as did I—that you would not be able to react convincingly, if you were fully prepared in advance. I thought that if you knew to expect something, you would be sufficiently prepared to recognize the blow when it fell." He shrugs, looking once more quite exhausted. "Perhaps I should have known better."

Harry looks at him closely. Under normal circumstances, this isn't the kind of question he could ever bring himself to ask—but in an hour or so, he figures, he's going to be quite beyond embarrassment, and afterwards he probably won't even remember.

"So you really didn't mean the things you said?" he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Snape gives him a close, thoughtful look. He doesn't answer right away.

"A week ago I might have said it and meant it," he says, after a moment. "Though you must understand that before I—came into the possession of certain facts, I did not believe you were capable of being affected by anything I said. My escalating hostility towards you over the years was in part simple frustration at the fact that nothing I said or did ever appeared to have any impact on you. I mistook your stoicism for arrogance and insensitivity. So while I might once have taken pleasure in saying what I did, I would only have done so in the belief you could not be hurt by it. I assure you that saying it today gave me no pleasure at all." Snape gives a thin smile. "Rather the reverse, in fact."

"Oh," says Harry. "That's...good to know."

Snape nods. He does not say anything else at first, and Harry cannot bring himself to break the silence. His mind is full of troubling images of himself in the grip of nightmares he can't wake up from; he feels a bit as though he is living a kind of nightmare already.

"Do you have any more questions?" Snape says after a moment, startling him from his reverie.

Harry looks back at him and thinks. "Just one," he says quietly. Somehow, his own voice is beginning to sound wrong, strained in his ears. "You never said. Why did you bring me here, instead of taking me to the infirmary?"

Snape arches an eyebrow, as though surprised. "I thought, considering the quality of your dreams, you would prefer to be observed by as few people as possible. Did you not say as much, before?"

"Well, yeah, but..." Harry is beginning to find concentration a bit of an effort. "I didn't tell you that till I woke up—you mean, you knew before? About the nightmares?"

Snape sighs for a third time. "Potter, considering everything that has happened to you over the last sixteen years, I hardly see how you could not have nightmares fit to wake the dead."

There is a strange, knowing, sympathetic gleam to Snape's eyes, even in the midst of all the exasperation. Suddenly, Harry is sure he knows what it means.

"You too then?" he says sleepily.

Snape's lip quirks in a faint, sad sort of smile. "Yes, Potter," he says. "Me too."


	5. in care of, part two

With approximately half an hour left before the Draught will pitch him headlong into an endless stream of waking nightmares, Potter drifts off to sleep. Snape keeps to his chair beside the bed and distracts himself from thoughts of the coming ordeal by shifting through the rubble in Potter's school bag, searching for his Transfigurations textbook. He finds it beneath half a metric ton of crumpled parchment and empty Chocolate Frog wrapping papers; it opens directly to the middle, where Potter has stashed his correspondence.

Rifling through the stack of letters, he quickly determines that Vernon Dursley's is not among them. These letters are all in Snape's handwriting. Every note he has scribbled and sent off to Potter in the last week is here—with the exception of the very first, the one he had given orders to destroy. Those that remain are well thumbed, going soft around the edges and at the folds, as though Potter has taken them out, read them, and put them away again countless times in the last week. Snape finds himself arrested by that thought, helpless to resist the picture slowly forming in his mind of Potter, sitting much as Snape is now with elbows on knees, poring over these paltry scribbles. What depths of emotional poverty has the boy been living in all this while, that he cherishes such trifles as though they were treasures? Snape glances back over the words he had written carelessly, with no idea how they would be perused, maybe even committed to memory. Had he any notion how they would be received, he might have tried harder to say things of worth—as it is, half the letters are pure insult. Yet the boy has kept them close.

He should be angry—furious even—with Potter's carelessness. Draco Malfoy is in his Transfigurations class, and one careless accident with that textbook might have put inescapable evidence of Snape's true loyalties on display to the person mostly likely to destroy him with it. And yet, he finds the anger will not come. Perhaps there is simply no room for it beside the anxiety, the shame that surges up in him whenever his thoughts stray back to the look in Potter's eyes when he had flung an arm up to protect himself—from Snape—

Snape stuffs the letters back into the book with an angry, defensive gesture, snapping it shut to avoid looking at them. He sits for a moment, his eyes resting on Potter, on the pale face beneath the dark hair, and realizes with a start that, when he isn't wearing his glasses, Harry's resemblance to his father is dramatically lessened. Snape can see Lily in the mouth and the shape of the high cheekbones from this angle—funny, that he never should have noticed it before, it is quite unmistakable...

He looks away from the boy and towards the textbook again, and this time his search reveals a single letter tucked between the back flap and the end paper. The letter is written on stationery of heavy cotton stock, but, unfolding it, Snape sees that it has been typed and printed on a Muggle computer, the signature nothing more than a stamp. There is a letterhead for Grunning's Drills at top. Snape spares a thin smile for the obvious machination. Having been bested by two wizards in his own home, Dursley strikes now from his place of business, as though in his dim Muggle way he supposes himself safe there. He is quite wrong—as Snape looks forward to proving to him.

Snape smooths the letter out on his knee and begins to read.

Perhaps it is the tension of awaiting Potter's ordeal; perhaps it is the painful awareness of his own failure to protect him. Or perhaps it is merely one childhood memory of his own too many, rushing back at him over time and distance: However it happens, Snape finds himself staring five minutes later at the crumpled ball of paper in his fist, hands trembling with an anger so violent, so bitter, that it seems to possess a dim, destructive intelligence of its own.

The letter, he is forced to admit, is a masterpiece of its kind. The physical threats are practically pro forma, and do not in themselves concern Snape any more than he imagines they had concerned Potter. It is rather the insidious way Dursley manages, in a few lines of prose, to subtly recast the boy in the role of villain and aggressor, and put himself and the insufferable Petunia and their bullying snot of a son into the place of the victims, that clouds Snape's vision with a red haze.

Potter is, Snape knows, uniquely susceptible to precisely this sort of insinuation. He is all too easily convinced of his own guilt, whether or not there is rational evidence for the conviction; he had been unloved as a small child, and Snape knows all too well that such children learn to assign themselves the blame for their neglect. The fact that Dursley has, with his predator's instinct, written to exploit the very weakness he had created, in direct defiance of Snape's warning, fills Snape with such rage that, were it not impossible to leave Potter by himself at the moment, he would undoubtedly succumb to the temptation to revisit the Dursley home in Surrey and do something quite Unforgivable.

He does not allow himself to wonder what the boy's state of mind had been after reading that vicious screed; he had seen it for himself the moment Potter had walked into class earlier, and thought it merely apprehension over what would happen during the lesson. Nor does he waste his time speculating how the letter will affect Potter's dreams. He can guess all too easily.

Anger deserts him suddenly, leaving only exhaustion in its place. Lacking any other outlet, Snape turns towards the writing desk that sits along the wall beside the bed, and reaches into the cabinet for parchment and quill. He is probably calm enough to write now without snapping the latter implement between his fingers.

Headmaster, he writes.

You have assumed the mantle of my soul's guardian so far in the past as to shield me from temptations you did not believe me equal to resisting. May I now be so bold as to request you do so again? I am sufficiently encumbered at present to render the threat a distant one, but if Vernon Dursley is possessed of his liberty at such time as Potter begins to convalesce, I will not be held responsible for my actions.

Snape

P.S. I suggest he be called for at his place of business. Possibly by persons in the guise of Muggle police officers.

He takes Dursley's letter, now more or less spherical, into his hand and taps it with his wand; it straightens and folds itself up into a square small enough to conceal within the parchment letter, which seals itself at the next tap of his wand with a wax seal in the shape of the Hogwarts crest.

"For the Headmaster," he tells it. "Immediately." And the letter snaps out of existence before his eyes.

Snape leans back in the straight wooden desk chair and surveys the dim interior of his bedroom, feeling a headache begin to gather around his temples. It occurs to him that his chambers are perhaps not the ideal physical environment in which to house a person shortly doomed to live out a series of waking nightmares. The low lighting suits him, and the collection of macabre curios he has assembled appeals to his sense of humor, but he cannot help thinking the high ceiling, crisp white linens, and wide windows of the hospital wing would be more conducive to easing Potter's state of mind. Still, there is no help for it. The boy has lived more than five years in the castle, if he is unnerved by medieval architecture there is no help for him.

Minutes, seconds tick by. Snape finds himself watching Potter closely for signs of stirring; when the boy does wake, it will be all at once, no slow resurgence into consciousness. His breathing continues steady, however, and after a few minutes Snape finds he has no more patience for the task. His stomach is churning uncomfortably; he rises from the chair and turns for the door, heading down the short, narrow corridor into the kitchen. There, he begins assembling tea automatically. He is not in the mood, precisely, to fiddle with cream jugs and sugar bowls and tongs and cups with saucers, but arranging them on the solid wooden expanse of his dining table gives him something to do with his hands. He hopes to persuade Potter to eat or drink something when he wakes. Granted, allowing Potter to starve and dehydrate himself until he is too weak to move might make him easier to control while he is in the thrall of waking dreams; but Snape is not Vernon Dursley. It will take time to convince the boy of this, but he means to succeed in the end.

Snape has just poured the water over the tea leaves when a shadow, streaming into the kitchen from the doorway, arrests his attention. He looks up; Potter stands there, blinking at him.

So it begins, Snape thinks to himself, and decides to make an attempt, at least, to head trouble off at the pass.

"Potter," he says, Vanishing the excess hot water before carefully stowing his wand in an inner vest pocket. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

"Yeah, I know, I'm sorry," says Potter, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "But I was wondering if you would mind helping me with my homework? It's really hard, and if I mess it up again Snape will chuck me out of Auror class."

Snape's hand freezes in the act of reaching for the handle of the teapot. He turns, raking Potter with his gaze. Potter stands, looking uncomfortable, as though he expects to be sent back to his room.

He could, of course, take a firm line from the very beginning: force Potter to acknowledge his dream now, and then over and over again for the next two days. He had intended as much, when he first began to consider how to handle Potter's indisposition. But he had been prepared for the very worst, for screaming terrors from the pits of hell right from the start. Instead, he finds Potter ensconced in what would appear to be a fairly mild sort of anxiety-dream about school and homework. As nightmares go, he could have done worse. And the sooner he begins to fight, the sooner he will be too exhausted to fight anymore—better, Snape decides, that the boy should save his strength for resisting the true nightmares.

"I believe you should do your homework on your own," he says at last, watching the boy's face carefully.

Rather to his alarm, Potter immediately looks guilty and crestfallen. "Right. Sorry, Dad," he mumbles. "Shouldn't have asked."

Snape feels, quite suddenly, as though all the air has been sucked out of the room around him. He reaches out beside him for the surface of the kitchen counter and leans there, supporting himself. His knees are less steady than he prefers them.

"Potter," he says weakly, "I am not—"

"I'm trying to learn on my own," Potter interrupts, his voice thick with frustration. "I really am, but there's a lot of stuff about being a wizard they don't put into books. I'll never get it all down before Hagrid comes to take me to Hogwarts."

Snape shuts his eyes briefly; he has to swallow to moisten his mouth before he can speak again. "Just—do your best," he tells the boy, his voice sounding faint in his own ears. "I'm sure it will be enough."

Potter nods once, looking thoughtful. Then, a new look of determination settling over his features, he walks past Snape into the kitchen, positioning himself at the wooden counter top and beginning a complicated mime which looks to Snape as though he is lining up invisible potions tools and hanging a cauldron over flame.

"I almost had it the other day," he says, fumbling with non-existent vials, "but for some reason I can never remember the asphodel."

"What are you brewing?" Snape asks carefully, in what he hopes is a neutral voice. In truth, he thinks he knows already.

"The Draught of Waking Death," says Potter. "It's the only one I can't make yet. I work on it all the time, but I don't think I'm ever going to be able to finish memorizing the textbook before I go to Hogwarts."

"I don't believe memorizing the entire text is required of first years," Snape says, stepping lightly around Potter and sinking into one of the kitchen chairs, after turning it around to face him.

"No, I have to," Potter says insistently. He appears to be stirring his imaginary cauldron with a vigor more suited to cake batter than any Potion Snape is familiar with. "Snape will make me drink it if I can't prove I'm not a freak. He'll send me away from Hogwarts, and I'll have to go to the freak school."

"He will do no such thing," Snape tells him firmly, even as his stomach begins to churn. He thinks he can locate the source of this dream from amongst Potter's experiences—the first day the boy had appeared in his Potions class, he had asked him something about asphodel. He had known next to nothing about the boy's upbringing at the time—had fully expected him to recognize the oblique signal, that asphodel was a kind of lily. He had taken the boy's dumb incomprehension as a willful rebuff—and everything had fallen apart from there...

"I copied out the entire book," Potter mutters to himself, as though he has not heard him, "but I keep forgetting the asphodel, I don't know why." He continues his vigorous stirring with one hand, reaching out for another invisible object with the other. And then, suddenly, he gasps—makes a wild, grasping gesture—then freezes.

"No," he whispers. "Oh, no, I spilled the blood." He turns mournful, frustrated eyes up at Snape. "How am I s'posed to stopper death now?"

Between the look in the boy's eyes and the sound of his hoarse voice, Snape finds the hairs on the back of his arms prickling. Potter looks away, back to the counter, with a forlorn expression—then sets about wiping the mess up.

"And I ruined dinner," he says, a little desperately. "And Dudley's birthday is tomorrow—Dad, please—" Potter turns to Snape suddenly, a pleading look on his face. "I'm sorry—don't make me go and live with Uncle Vernon, I promise I'll do better next time."

It is just as well, Snape thinks, that he is sitting down already. He looks up at the boy, who watches him with the piteous, fearful eyes of a much younger child, and swallows convulsively.

"Harry," he says, finding to his surprise that the boy's given name does not sound unnatural on his lips. "I would never send you to live with Vernon Dursley."

Potter's shoulders sag—with relief, Snape thinks—and his eyes brighten. "I'll do my lines for you," he says, as though this is a great favor and a worthy trade for receiving a roof over his head from his own father. "And later I'll scrub out all the cauldrons, I learned how to do that at freak school."

There is a quill and parchment on the dining table. Snape more frequently uses that surface as a secondary desk and worktable than as an eating space, and even in his own chambers he never allows himself to wander far from writing implements. Potter seems to have spotted them; he takes a seat to the left of Snape, and reaches for the quill.

"How many times was I supposed to write it?" he says brightly, then, looking chagrined, answers his own question: "That's right, five million lines, I forgot."

He bends low over the table, quill in hand—and then, to Snape's consternation, rather than dragging the quill over the parchment, he begins to dig the point of it into the back of his own hand.

"Stop that!" Snape shouts, leaping from his chair and reaching across the table to snatch the quill from Potter's fingers. "What do you think you're doing?"

Potter peers at him from beneath a furrowed brow. "You didn't give me any ink," he says, shrugging, as though answering a question too obvious for words.

Snape opens his mouth to reply to this, then changes his mind. Instead, he drops the quill and reaches out with the same hand to capture Potter's wrist. He holds the boy's hand in the light and examines the bleeding scratches across his skin.

Beneath them, faintly, in thin white lines of scar tissue, he can just distinguish the words, "I must not tell lies," traced in a handwriting he recognizes immediately as Potter's own.

Snape knows of blood quills, of course—they were a common method of classroom discipline in centuries previous, but they have been banned as Dark Devices for the past seventy years. And for good cause, he thinks, staring at the white writing, hardly daring to contemplate how many times the boy must have written the words in order to produce a scar so lasting and visible.

"Who did this to you, Harry?" he demands in a tight, low voice. He is beginning to feel slightly ill.

"Professor Quirrell," Potter says, gazing out at a point in the middle distance. "He didn't like me saying Voldemort was back."

Snape stares at the boy, momentarily speechless. Then he releases his hand and straightens abruptly.

"Wait here," he says. "I will return in a moment."

He turns on his heel and strides up the short length of corridor towards the workroom; arriving, he shuts the door behind him and leans against it, shutting his eyes. He could simply have Summoned the bottle of disinfectant he has come to fetch, but he needs a moment to gather himself, out of the sight of that troubled gaze.

He had known that tending Potter through this madness would be difficult, exhausting, an emotional strain. He had been prepared for that. He had not, however, predicted how much it would affect him, being immersed in the shadow-play of the boy's subconscious. He had thought that all the years he had spent cultivating distance from Potter would give him some measure of protection against his own susceptibility; he had not expected his defenses to shatter around his feet the first time he was confronted with evidence of how deeply the boy's vulnerability goes.

Snape jerks his head sharply, to clear it, then locates the potion he is looking for; he locks and wards the cabinet behind him and walks back to the kitchen, where the boy continues to sit, staring forward with a look of dumb apprehension on his face.

"Here," he says, placing the bottle on the table between them and taking his seat again. "Give me your hand."

With a wary look, Potter complies. Snape circles the boy's scrawny wrist with his fingers and covers the open mouth of the bottle with the folded square of his handkerchief. He holds the cloth in place and turns the bottle upside down to moisten it, then sets the bottle aside and presses the cloth lightly to the scratches on the back of the boy's hand.

As soon as the astringent comes into contact with the broken skin, Potter makes a strange, low noise of distress.

"I'm sorry," he says, in an urgent, breathless voice.

Snape frowns at him, continuing to dab at the scratches. "It is merely a disinfecting agent, Potter. I would simply have healed the scratches, but you may have introduced ink to the wounds."

If Potter hears him, he gives no indication. Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, his breathing begins to quicken, as though he is nearing panic.

"I couldn't help it," he says, pleadingly. "I didn't mean to do it."

Snape looks up from the back of his hand, and frowns. "Do what, Harry?"

"It just happens," says Potter, and to Snape's alarm he sees that tears are beginning to stream down his face. "Please, I'll go to my cupboard, I'll be good."

Snape's jaw drops; he closes his mouth tightly and resists the urge to swear.

"You will not be returning to the cupboard," he tells him in a firm voice.

Rather to his surprise, this does not calm the boy—if anything, he seems to grow more upset. "Please, Uncle Vernon," he says, a hitch in his voice. "Please, it hurts—I'm sorry, I promise not to act like a freak anymore—"

Snape stares at him—then snatches away the cloth and releases the boy's hand so quickly that Potter flinches from the sudden movement.

Idiot, he curses himself, feeling his own breathing grow slightly ragged. He ought to have known—guessed, at least—how the boy's dreaming mind would interpret any kind of pain. And now for the second time in the same number of hours, Potter is looking at him as though he expects to be struck at any moment.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? he thinks, sending up a kind of prayer in his consternation. The boy is still watching him with wide eyes; Snape sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose, and makes an effort to calm himself.

"Listen to me, Harry," he says. "It is I, Severus Snape, speaking to you. Vernon Dursley is not here. You are in my chambers at Hogwarts. You are dreaming."

Snape can see the moment awareness begins to dawn in the boy's eyes. His breathing calms, and he blinks several times to clear the standing water in his eyes.

"Professor?" he says—quietly, but sounding more like himself.

"Yes, Potter," Snape says, relieved.

Potter blinks again, shaking his head. "This is so weird," he mutters. "I was looking at you, and I knew who you were, but you just...felt like Uncle Vernon."

He does not mention having confused Snape for his father, and Snape does not bring it up.

"Mistaking one person for another is common in dreams," Snape says. "It was only to be expected."

Potter scrubs a hand over his face furiously, as though eager to remove evidence of his distress. "Sorry for blubbing all over you," he mutters.

"Don't apologize," Snape says immediately. "It is important you not distress yourself more than can be avoided, especially while you are lucid. Try to put yourself at ease. I will not reprimand you for anything you say or do in this state."

Potter nods, and looks down at smooth surface of the wooden dining table. Snape wonders how it appears to his eyes, whether it has become the surface of a classroom desk, or a laboratory work table, or perhaps the counter in his aunt's kitchen.

They sit in silence for a long moment; then Potter looks up at him, no hint of his earlier distress in his eyes.

"You want to play Gobstones?" says Potter suddenly.

Snape blinks at him in surprise, uncertain whether this is a new phase of the dream or merely evidence of boredom. "I do not know how the game is played," he says. "I never learned. My mother had a set, but I do not have it with me."

"Someone ought to have painted them into her portrait," Potter grins. "Maybe if she had something to do she wouldn't be in such a foul mood all the time."

Portrait? Snape thinks, surprised. Why would Potter think—oh. Oh, no.

The starry look in Potter's eyes as he grins across the table at him is all the answer he needs for his suspicions. It is, Snape supposes, grimacing, a logical sort of progression—from James Potter to Vernon Dursley to Sirius Black. He is, apparently, fated to play the role of Potter's erstwhile father figures for a time. Well, as long as the boy no longer sits cringing in apprehension of abuse, he will regard it as an improvement.

"I sincerely doubt a set of Gobstones would render Walburga Black any less odious," he says, playing along, feeling quite weary.

"Do I play Quidditch as well as my dad?" Potter asks, setting Snape's head spinning with the non-sequitur. "I always meant to ask you.

Snape clamps down vigorously on the first several replies that rise instinctively to his lips. Answer as Black would, he tells himself, gritting his teeth.

"Yes," Snape manages finally, though he is unable to keep the distaste entirely from his voice.

He feels rather proud of himself for his restraint, but something about that brief reply causes Potter to frown.

"I know you want me play Quidditch with you, Sirius," he says seriously. "I'd like to play too, but if you go outside the house you might get caught."

Snape's lip curls, as he wonders how much of this exchange is based on actual events. It would have been just like Black to put Potter into the position of having to be the responsible one. "How fortunate for me," he cannot help observing, "that you are not, after all, an exact replica of your father."

To Snape's consternation, the observation he had intended as a compliment seems to aggravate the boy's distress. "I told you, you can call me 'James' if you want to," he says earnestly, as though to pacify him. "I don't mind. I'm trying, you know, but it's hard. I never knew him."

Snape finds that it is not within his power to respond to a comment of this kind in any way but as himself. "I assure you," he says, fighting the urge to growl, "that I have no desire to call you James. Quite the contrary."

This, he perceives immediately, is a mistake; Potter's face falls, and he looks away as though he has been yelled at.

"He was a wizard, my dad," he says. "I'm just a freak."

"Harry—" Snape starts to speak, but Potter cuts across him with a desperate apology.

"I'm sorry Sirius," he cries."It was all my fault. If I had been a real wizard, you never would have fallen off your broom."

He folds his arms across his chest and dissolves into quiet, breathless sobs. Snape finds himself reaching out to grasp his shoulder, but at the last moment thinks better of it.

"Potter, listen to me," he says. "It was not your fault that Bl—that I died."

"Then why won't you let me come and live with you?" Potter says immediately. "I promise I'll keep to the cupboard. I won't be any trouble. You can punish me if I do freaky things, I won't tell anyone."

Snape rests his head against his palm, just for a moment, then spreads both his hands out on the table, leaning toward the boy and speaking with all the intent he can summon.

"Harry," he says, "you can stay with me. I won't put you in a cupboard. I won't hurt you. You are not a freak."

Potter sits for a moment, considering this, and after a moment or so, he seems to cheer up slightly. Snape watches his face carefully—and then the boy smiles, his eyes lighting up.

"Want to play Exploding Snap?" he says.

Snape has learned a number of things about Harry Potter in the last five hours that would have appeared to him in the light of a concentrated effort to destroy his peace of mind forever, were it not for the tangible fact that the boy isn't able to concentrate on anything at the moment, and can therefore not be held to blame. More's the pity.

For instance: Potter has always seemed rather old for his age, to Snape. This is in part why the boy's idiotic recklessness has always annoyed him so much—reminders of Potter's immaturity always seem to take him by surprise. The dreaming Potter, however, far from being prematurely aged, seems never to have grown past eight or nine years or so, and it is disconcerting for Snape to watch Potter's usual insolence convert to quiet pleas and hopeless sobs. It is especially unnerving in consideration of the impertinent apology he had made while semi-conscious a few hours ago, when he had believed his uncle in the room—had the boy taken that tone with him, Snape would have taken points and given detention, and he has no doubt what sort of response it would have provoked from Dursley himself. Yet, apparently, it had seemed more important to Potter to be defiant than to be safe from harm. How the defeated child of nine had grown into the cheeky brat of sixteen (not to mention every other age he has been since coming to Hogwarts), Snape cannot possibly imagine, but it fills him with a reluctant, yet inescapable sense of admiration for the boy.

"We have to hide." From out of nowhere, Potter's hand descends on Snape's arm and closes tightly, almost painfully, around the wrist. There is a strength he would never have believed in those skinny fingers. "Here, behind the gravestones—no, you have to be quiet!" he hisses, in a low voice, as Snape opens his mouth to protest. "It's him, he's here, he'll kill you—he always kills you—"

Potter has been attempting to enact a version of this scenario for the last hour or so, ever since he had finally rid himself of the delusion that Snape is his mangy mutt of a dead godfather. At first, by dint of sustained effort, Snape had been able to snap the boy out of the dream almost immediately each time it began—but the more time passes, the more resistant Potter has become to hearing, or even acknowledging what Snape is trying to tell him.

Well, Snape thinks, as Potter drags him down behind the sofa. At least I knew this one was coming.

"Potter," he says quietly, as they kneel together behind the 'gravestone'. "You are dreaming. The Dark Lord is not here. I am not Cedric Diggory."

"Yes he is," Potter insists in a furious whisper. "Wormtail's bringing him out any second. Dammit, I don't have my wand—we have to get back to the Portkey, Cedric, it's the only way—"

"Potter. You. are. dreaming. The Dark Lord—"

"RUN!" Potter screams suddenly, so close to Snape's ear that he winces. "GO—I'll hold him off—" Potter gives Snape a hard shove, taking him by surprise; he loses his balance, toppling backwards onto the floor. Potter leaps to his feet and positions himself between Snape and an empty patch of rug—where stands, presumably, the invisible figure of Voldemort.

Typical, Snape thinks, still wincing from the impact with the stone floor. Even in dreams he has to be a bloody Gryffindor.

"Get away!" Potter shouts at thin air. "Don't touch him!"

Snape pushes himself upright and climbs painfully to his feet. "Potter—" he says, clutching a bruised elbow.

Potter turns to face him then, and the look on his face freezes Snape's blood. The wildness of his eyes, the desperate pleading in them, renders him almost speechless.

"He's killed Cedric," Potter says in a hoarse voice. "Dad—help me—"

"It's not real, Potter!" Snape takes one long stride towards him, gripping the boy's narrow shoulders in his hands. He resists the urge to shake him. "You are dreaming."

Potter stands there, breathing heavily, as sweat beads along his forehead and upper lip. He raises a trembling hand to his forehead, brushing back the hair plastered to the side of his face.

"Professor?" he says uncertainly.

Snape releases a long breath, relieved. "Yes," he says. "You are seeing things that aren't really there. The only people in this room are you and me."

Potter screws his eyes shut. "I thought—it was so real—"

"I know." Snape gives his shoulders a final squeeze, then releases him.

They stand together in silence for a moment—then Potter opens his eyes again and looks at him hesitantly.

"Professor?" he says again.

"Yes, Potter."

The boy's eyes widen. A look of horror flashes over his face.

"He knows," he says. "He knows you're a spy, he knows you've been helping me. He's coming—he's going to kill you, you have to get out of here!"

Snape stares at him, aghast. Of all the horrors he had expected to come tumbling out of the boy's head, his own death at Voldemort's hands was never one of them. If he had expected to make an appearance in Potter's dreams at all, he would have thought to find himself a dark and menacing figure—never an object of concern or anxiety, never one of the many victims Potter could not save.

"He isn't here," Snape tells the boy, appalled by the unsteadiness of his own voice. Then again, this dream is not so different from some of his own. "I am safe. You are safe. You are dreaming."

He stares hard into Potter's eyes, and is relieved to see a flicker of recognition there.

"Again?" says Potter wearily.

"Again," Snape confirms.

Potter looks miserable. "He's standing right behind you," he says. "I can still see him."

Snape jerks, and spins automatically, helpless to resist the instinctive stab of dread in his gut. He tells himself he is unsurprised to find the room empty behind him. "I do not see him," he tells Potter, in a calm and reasonable voice.

"He killed my mum," Potter whispers. "When the dementors come near, I can hear her, dying. She begged him to spare me—she pleaded for my life—"

Snape shuts his eyes, then opens them again, averting his gaze. "I know she did," he says, his own voice quite as hoarse as the boy's.

A second later, Potter sways backwards slightly, reaching out with a hand to steady himself against a nearby table. Snape takes a closer look at him—he should be flushed, to be sweating so much, but he is very pale.

"Here, Potter." He lays a hand on the boy's arm—gently, so as not to produce another maddening flinch—and steers him towards the sofa. "Sit."

Potter's knees buckle when they hit the edge of the seat. He falls back onto the cushions and immediately scoots into a corner, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. Snape grabs the corner of a light woollen blanket, still hanging off the arm of the sofa from where he had fallen asleep in front of the fire last night, and arranges it around the boy's shoulders.

"Could you eat or drink anything, do you think?" he asks, taking a step back and regarding him through narrowed eyes.

Potter shrugs, as though a vocal reply would be beyond his energy. "Wait here then," says Snape. "I will bring you something."

House elves could bring a far better meal for the boy than Snape is capable of making, but he does not wish to summon them; again, he needs something to do with his hands, a respite of sorts from relentless thought. He assembles a sandwich, meat and cheese on plain bread, and pours out a tall glass of cold water. Just as he has set the sandwich on a plate, he hears the boy speak again.

"Aunt Petunia?" he says, very quietly—almost as though he is trying not to be heard.

Snape turns to face the parlor through the open kitchen door; he can see Potter, still sitting where Snape had left him, hunched up in the corner of the sofa. He sees the back of the dark head lift, as though he is tracking something with his eyes.

"Aunt Petunia?" the boy says again, in the small voice of a small child. Something about the plaintive, hopeless note behind the words causes Snape to gather his hand into a fist.

Snape takes the plate with the sandwich in one hand and the glass of water in the other, but just as he has just taken a step towards the parlor, Potter's next words freeze him in his tracks.

"Mum?"

A long silence follows, into which the boy expels a long, shaky, broken breath, not unlike a very quiet sob.

Noiselessly, Snape puts the plate and the glass down on the counter top, and walks slowly towards the parlor. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the boy's head lifts further.

"Mum?" he says again.

Snape steps carefully around the edge of the couch, and comes to stand in front of the fireplace, where the boy can see him. Potter's eyes, bright with unshed tears, seek his.

There is, Snape knows, nothing he can do to draw Potter out of this particular misery. How, after all, would it do any good to remind him that he is only dreaming? There are no hallucinations to dispel here, and there is nothing unreal or illusory about the pain and the need the boy is feeling.

"Harry..." he says, beginning to feel overwhelmed by his own helplessness.

Potter rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. "I want my mum," he says, in a miserable whisper, so low as to be nearly inaudible.

"I know," says Snape, hearing his voice crack slightly.

He stands there a long moment in an agony of indecision. Then, slowly, he sinks down onto the sofa beside the boy and—awkwardly, tentatively—puts his arm around his shoulders.

Potter stiffens at the touch, and for a moment Snape is sure he has made a mistake. He nearly pulls away. But then the boy seems to melt beneath him, turning into his embrace with a low, desperate noise, too full of pain and awareness to sound anything like a child's cry.

Snape draws Potter close against his chest, and rests his chin on the top of his head, where it seems, contrary to all reason, to fit quite comfortably.

Help me, Lily, he thinks desperately, as the boy shudders and dissolves in the circle of his arms.

He sits with Potter in this way for over an hour. The boy stills and quiets eventually, and Snape himself nearly dozes off—he is quite exhausted—until a knock at the door startles him back into consciousness.

Harry makes a low, distressed noise when he begins to pull away, and Snape squeezes his shoulder to reassure him. "It's all right," he says. "I have to answer the door. I'll be right back."

He walks stiffly to the door, aware as he does so that he must look like hell: his shirt sleeves are rolled past the elbows, his collar undone, and his hair is escaping the tie in the back. He decides he doesn't care, especially if this is the long-awaited assistance Dumbledore had promised him.

He opens the door, blinking down in surprise at the person he finds there.

"Miss Lovegood," he says, discovering that his voice is rough with disuse. "Harry cannot have visitors. I must ask you to leave."

Lovegood smiles as though she has not heard him. "Good evening, Professor Snape," she says, holding out a roll of parchment tied with a purple ribbon. "Professor Dumbledore asked me to give you this."

Snape arches a querying eyebrow at her. She is, he cannot help thinking, rather an odd choice of messenger. "Thank you," he says, taking the parchment from her and untying the ribbon.

Severus, it begins, in Dumbledore's narrow 19th century copperplate.

Thank you for bringing the matter of Vernon Dursley to my notice. I know it must have cost you something to delegate to another the task of dealing with him. Rest assured that Mr Dursley will have received every benefit of my attention well before you are again granted the opportunity to succumb to temptation.

I send this letter to you in care of Miss Lovegood, who has graciously volunteered to give of her time this weekend to help you care for Harry. Madam Pomfrey will also come to see you directly after dinner. Do not hesitate to rely on Miss Lovegood fully; she has an excellent grasp of the realities of Harry's situation, and is admirably suited to the task of assisting you. I shall call upon you myself early tomorrow morning. If I can be of any further help, please inform me.

Regards,

Albus Dumbledore

When he has finished reading, Snape glances down at the girl in his doorway over the top of the paper. She stands there quite patiently, a look of curious expectation in her wide eyes. Snape notices that she has changed out of her uniform into sturdy Muggle clothing, jeans and a jumper. And at least she looks as though she's slept at least one full night in the last week, Snape tells himself, finding that, all in all, he is far too tired to turn away help in whatever form it comes to him.

"Well, Miss Lovegood," Snape says, stepping back from the door. "I suppose you should come inside."


	6. to whom it may concern

At Professor Snape's invitation, Luna walks through the door of his quarters and smiles fondly at the man himself, who shuts the door behind her, then looks down at her through narrowed, considering eyes.

She had met Ron and Hermione in the corridor outside Professor Dumbledore's office a few hours ago, still clutching the note that had arrived for her in the middle of her Divinations class, summoning her to see him. Ron and Hermione had both been very agitated, and though at first Hermione had not let Ron explain why, they had both broken into a rather confused story about exploding cauldrons after she had shown them the Headmaster's note. Ron had seemed confused as to why Professor Dumbledore would want to see her, when they were the ones he had promised an explanation to, but Luna had decided not to tell him at the time. She wonders idly how long it will take Snape to get around to asking. Then again, perhaps he doesn't care.

"You look rather tired, Professor," she can't help observing, as Snape runs a hand through his hair and blinks as though to clear grit from his eyes.

"Well spotted, Miss Lovegood," he replies, with a faint twist of the lip. "Are you by any chance able to tell me why the Headmaster believes that the best possible assistance he could render me in this situation is that of a fifth year student with no particular aptitude for the fields of Potions or Medi-wizardry?"

Well, that didn't take very long at all, she thinks, a bit pleased. She is a rather direct sort of person herself, and this sometimes startles people. It's always nice when she has the chance to answer spoken questions, rather than having to sift through the conversation to find the unspoken ones.

"Professor Dumbledore didn't say why exactly," she tells him, in an effort to be precise. "But I imagine it's because he knows I've taken the Waking Dreams Draught myself. There aren't many people who have, you see—I was quite a rare case, they wrote articles about me and everything."

Snape's eyes grow distinctly round. "You have taken the Draught?" he says, his voice strangely subdued, as though he had stumbled on the information by accident and was afraid to let her know he knew about it. "I hadn't—" He stops, sounding hesitant. "May I inquire when? And under what circumstances?"

She nods. Despite what people always seem to expect, she doesn't mind talking about it. She imagines it would be different if she were someone like Harry—complete strangers think they know all about him, because of what happened to him as a baby—or Professor Snape, whose secrets are extremely dangerous, but Luna so rarely talks to anyone about anything that she can never help being pleased when people ask her questions about herself.

Besides all that, she's relived her mother's death in her own mind so many times that talking about it is almost easy by comparison.

"My mother died in an experiment with incendiary Charms when I was nine," she tells him, comforted by the fact that his expression betrays nothing but interest—maybe a hint of concern is there as well. "I was in the room with her when it happened, I saw everything. For a long time afterwards I didn't talk to people or look at them at all if I could help it. My father was too upset to notice at first. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the accident happening again, and my nightmares were so bad I stopped sleeping for almost a week. That's when they sent me to St Mungo's. The Draught was new at the time and they thought it might help to bring me out of myself again. It worked rather well, I was able to cry after it was all over."

Luna finds that Snape is staring at her, looking slightly shocked. She doesn't mind; it was, after all, rather a horrible thing to live through, and it's nice to know that he realizes that. Of course, he is the only person she's ever told who knows exactly what the Draught does. Unless you counted Professor Dumbledore, of course, but then he hadn't needed to be told.

"I—" Snape stops, clearing his throat. "I do believe I have read some of the articles in question—it was, as you say, a rather famous experimental case in certain circles. I never thought..." He gives a small shake of his head. "Never mind. I thank you for your confidence, Miss Lovegood, I shall, of course, respect it." His tone becomes more brisk. "And I am glad the Headmaster sent you. I hope you will be able to answer a few questions for me at a later time—I should very much like to know what to expect during Ha—during Mr Potter's recovery."

"I'll be happy to tell you as much as I can," she says, a little touched by his grave courtesy. "Only there's a great deal of it I don't really remember. If you like, though, I can give Mr Dunsany my permission to talk to you about it. He was the Healer in charge of my case," she explains at his blank look.

"That—that is extremely generous of you, Miss Lovegood," he says, going rather soft about the mouth for a moment. "I will keep it in mind."

They have been talking for five minutes now and haven't yet moved more than a few feet away from the door. He really does look very tired. She doesn't think Snape would appreciate a student telling him to go away and let her take care of things, however, so she chooses her wording carefully.

"I would have come sooner," she says, "but the Headmaster told me to wait until after all my classes were over. If you'd like to rest awhile, Professor, I could stay with Harry—you've been here a long time already, it's nearly time for dinner."

Luna is sure she does not imagine the look of longing that briefly crosses his face, but he shakes his head. "Later, perhaps," he says. "For now I don't dare leave him. I told him I would return."

Snape turns abruptly on his heel, and strides toward the open parlor door. "Follow me, please," he calls, without turning to look at her.

Snape leads her into a small room lined entirely by groaning bookshelves. There is a fire burning in the grate of a fireplace almost as long as the wall and tall enough to stand up in. A sofa sits in the center of the room, facing the fireplace, flanked by two end tables and two armchairs. She can just make out the top of Harry's head, rising over the back of the sofa. He does not stir at their entrance.

"His delusions have taken a quieter turn over the last hour," Snape says, coming to stand just behind her. "For a time, they were quite violent. Now, though, he is physically exhausted. He has ceased to articulate what he sees, but I believe he...suffers." His voice is quite cool as he tells her this, but she can see the agitation of his hands from the corner of her eye. "I decided to cease attempting to draw him out, in the hopes he would remain reposed, at least in body." He pauses. "I confess I am at something of a loss what more to do for him."

Luna can hear the question he does not ask. This is her greatest talent.

"I think the only thing we can do is make him feel safe," she says. "And let him know he isn't alone. Why don't we go sit with him, Professor?"

Snape jerks, as though startled; then he nods. "Of course."

When he does not immediately take the lead, she realizes he is waiting on her. She walks towards the couch, taking the long way around so that Harry will see her coming and not be startled. But when she sees him, huddled under the blanket, tears drying on his face, it is almost more than she can do to keep herself from crying out. If Snape looks exhausted, then Harry looks ill, shadows like bruises pooling under his eyes, his skin whiter than moonstone. He looks up as she approaches, and she sees recognition followed by a flicker of despair, and she understands what it means—he has seen her and dismissed her as another dream.

"Do you know me, Harry?" she says softly, as Snape takes a seat on the sofa beside him. She is pleased to see Snape's hand close briefly on Harry's shoulder, and Harry's lips turn up in a faint smile, as though comforted by it.

"Luna's here," he says, not to her, but to Snape.

"Yes, Potter," says Snape. "She is here. She has come to stay with—us, for awhile."

He had been going to say "stay with you", Luna realizes, but had changed to "us" so that Harry wouldn't think he was leaving. She smiles at Snape, though he doesn't seem to notice. He is her favorite teacher for a reason, after all.

Luna crosses the distance between herself and Harry in a few steps. Reaching out slowly, she disentangles Harry's hand from the blanket and squeezes it tightly. He looks back up at her, his eyes widening.

"You—you're really here then," he says, sounding breathless.

"That's right," she says. "Budge over."

He blinks at her—then obligingly scoots a few inches over on the couch to give her room to sit. Snape, who is being edged out by the movement, stands up and redeposits himself in the closest armchair. Luna squeezes in between Harry and the arm of the sofa.

"Why're you here?" Harry asks, frowning a little. "I'm a right mess just now, Luna, I don't think you should—"

"I wanted to keep you and Professor Snape company," she says, taking his hand again. That had helped, she remembers—aside from the fear and pain and confusion, it is the one thing she remembers clearly from taking the Draught herself, how good it was when someone kind had touched her, how it had felt like the world was coming to an end when they had stopped. She wonders if anyone had told Snape that—she doubts Mr Dunsany had put it in his article.

"Really, Luna," Harry says again, his voice cracking. "I do mad things—I might hurt you—"

"You won't," she says immediately. "And I'm not leaving. You're my friends."

Snape gives a startled jerk at this, but says nothing.

"I think I hurt Snape," says Harry, lifting the hand she isn't holding to rub at his eyes. Then he lowers it again and peers at her intently. "You're really lucky to have him for a dad, Luna."

"Yes," she says, over the astonished noise Snape does not seem able to stop himself making. She gives him a quick look, then turns back to Harry. "I think he's your dad too, though."

"Really, Miss Love—"

"Sometimes," says Harry, and Snape falls abruptly silent. "But he won't let me go to my cupboard."

Luna can feel Snape's eyes boring into the side of her head. "Do you want to go to your cupboard?" she asks.

Harry shrugs. "It's safe there," he says, sounding uncertain.

"We're safe here, too," she says. "Professor Snape won't let anything happen to us."

Harry falls quiet for a moment. Snape's silence is nearly tangible. "He gets really angry sometimes," Harry says.

She can feel Snape tensing in the chair beside her. What a hurtful thing to hear, she thinks. And he is trying so hard.

"I do too, sometimes," she says carefully. "So do you. But Professor Snape would never hurt us."

Harry does not reply to this, and for the next minute or so none of them speak. She can tell, however, that Snape is growing agitated, as though there is something weighing heavily on his mind that he can't bring himself to say.

"Harry," she says, "Professor Snape and I are going to go into the kitchen and make tea. We'll be right back."

Harry's face falls a little when she gently pulls her hand away, but he nods. Snape has already risen to his feet and at a nod from her he leads her into the kitchen.

If she asks him what he wants to say, Luna suspects he will deny having wanted to say anything. So instead, she unbuttons the jumper over her shirt and ties the arms around her waist, then turns to the sink to fill the tea kettle with water. The cool dungeon air prickles the flesh of her bare arms—it is still summer, everywhere else in the castle, and her blouse is sleeveless.

Wordlessly, Snape places a tin of tea leaves and an empty tea pot on the counter beside her—and then catches his breath with a low, hissing noise.

"Where," he says, in a tense voice, "did you come by that bruise, Miss Lovegood?"

Luna is prepared for this question. She had known he would ask it the moment she removed her jumper. It isn't that she wants him to be angry, or worried about her, even though those things are rather nice. She doesn't want him to have poor, stupid Jeremy Bishop expelled, because bumping into her really had been an accident. But by telling Snape what happened to her this morning, she will be able to lead in gradually to answering the question she knows he really wants the answer to. And she has to answer it, even if he will not ask, because he needs the information to help Harry.

"I fell in the corridor on my way to breakfast this morning," she tells him, while warming the teapot with hot water and spooning the leaves in. "I landed rather hard."

Snape arches an eyebrow. "You fell?" he says dryly. "Or you were pushed?"

"It was an accident," she tells him firmly, knowing he will listen more closely to the tone of her voice than to her words.

Snape's mouth compresses into a thin line. "Have there been many such accidents this term?" he asks, his voice dark.

"Not really," she says, pouring the boiling water from the kettle into the pot. "It's been a lot better since what you did for me last year."

"I did nothing but enforce the standards of decent conduct required of students in this school," he says immediately.

Luna hides her smile as she fills the small jug with cream. "Yes," she says, "but not everyone does, you know, Professor."

He does not reply to this, save to look rather sour.

"Harry knows about that," she adds casually, filling the bowl with sugar. "How you helped me, I mean. I expect that's why he dreamed I was your daughter. Harry's never had a father, and I think he thinks that fathers always make things safe. They don't, of course, but Harry's dreams aren't really very subtle."

As much as Luna cares for Professor Snape, they have never really talked—he has certainly never told her anything about his family. But she has watched him very closely over the years, and she feels as though she could make a few clever guesses about him if she had to. Among them is her suspicion that he can't have felt very safe or happy as a child himself—he is too quick to notice the same kind of pain in others.

She really likes him quite a lot.

Snape is watching carefully, she notices, as she loads cups and saucers onto a tray. "You live alone with your father, I believe, during the summers?" he says, sounding rather tentative.

"I love him very much," she says, "and we get on quite well together. But he can't help what he doesn't notice, and since my mother died he doesn't notice very much." And because that is all she has to say on the subject, she picks up the tray and turns for the door. "Shall we go back to Harry now?"

Snape does not reply, but he takes the heavy tea tray out of her hands and heads through the door for the parlor. Smiling to herself, Luna follows.

Harry takes the teacup she presses into his hands and looks down at it, surprised. She thinks she can guess what he is feeling—the tangible warmth and hardness of the cup is an anchor to the waking world. He really should have had one all along.

They all sit quietly together for awhile, Luna refilling Harry's teacup ever so often. She watches him closely, noticing how his eyes seem to track the movements of things and people she cannot see. He does not cry out, though, or try to leave the couch, so she allows herself to hope he isn't hurting too much.

Snape, on the other hand, looks as though another few minutes of sustained consciousness might finish him off. His head droops, then jerks upright several times; his eyes fall shut, then open again, and twice he nearly drops his teacup.

"Professor Snape," says Luna in a quiet voice, and he jerks as though she has shouted at him. His eyes seek hers blearily.

"I really think you ought to go and try to rest for a bit, sir," she says.

Snape frowns and sets his cup on the table beside him. "That will not be necessary, Miss Lovegood."

"Harry and I will be fine," she says. "And Madam Pomfrey will be here soon."

He seems to consider this. "Perhaps later," he says. "When Poppy arrives."

"I suppose you could go to sleep in the chair," she says, hiding her amusement. "But I think it would be uncomfortable, and much less beneficial."

She is rewarded with a snort.

"I would like to," he confesses, and his frankness alone tells her just how tired he must be. "But I do not want—that is, I do not think it would be wise to leave you alone."

"I think we'll be alright, really," she says. "This is what Professor Dumbledore sent me for, after all."

Snape gives her a long look. He seems to be wrestling with words he would rather not say. She waits patiently for the contest to end.

"It is not that I do not think you capable," he says at last. "But—considering Potter's state of mind—""

He breaks off, looking uncomfortable, but a moment later he tries again.

"Potter is locked in a dream state," he says. "And while all his dreams so far have been of one kind, there is no telling what he may—" Snape stops again, shuts his eyes for a moment, opens them again, then says, "He is a sixteen year old boy, Miss Lovegood, and young men's dreams are often—I do not say this to disparage his character, but his inhibitions are lowered, and if I leave you alone with him, it may happen that he—"

Rather to her own surprise, Luna finds that she is blushing, but she is able to answer calmly all the same. "I really don't think Harry would force himself on someone, even in his dreams," she tells him. Beside her, Harry twitches slightly at the mention of his name, but otherwise does not respond to the conversation going on over his head.

"He is a young man," Snape repeats, in a dark voice. "In certain respects, all young men are alike."

"Yes," says Luna simply, "and I've known that since I was eleven. But I do have my wand, you know."

"Even in his current state, he is much stronger than you."

"Well, yes. I'm five foot three, most people are. But I'm quite fast with a Binding Curse, and Harry hasn't got his wand, has he?"

"Voldemort," says Harry suddenly, giving a shudder beside her. "He snapped it. Haven't got it anymore..."

Luna squeezes his hand tightly, and looks back at Snape. His concern, she decides, is very touching, but simply not worth allowing him to collapse with exhaustion.

"I rather think Harry's mind is on other things right now, Professor," she says quietly.

Snape looks from Luna, to where Harry sits staring into the fire, and sighs gustily.

"Very well," he says, getting to his feet. "But if you have any concern or difficulty whatsoever, I expect you to fetch me. I shall leave my door slightly open so you can call for me if you cannot come yourself."

"I understand," she says, in what she hopes is a soothing voice.

Snape arches an eyebrow, as though he understands he is being placated. "I must have your word on it, Miss Lovegood."

"I promise," she says.

Snape stands there for a moment, frowning, rather as though he has forgotten something and is trying to remember what. Then his face clears; he draws his wand and performs the movement for a Summoning Charm. A small jar sails through the open door of the parlor into his hand, and he presents it to her.

"For your arm," he says curtly, then turns without another word and disappears down the corridor.

Luna watches him go, then turns to Harry and smiles.

"He really is quite a good sort of dad," she says. "Why don't I read to you for awhile?"

"Fairy cakes," says Harry, with a shy smile.

By the time Madam Pomfrey arrives, Luna has been reading aloud for over an hour from The Secret Garden to a quiet Harry who slumps limply against her shoulder. She blinks in surprise when Luna opens the door—clearly she had been expecting Professor Snape—but she recovers quickly.

"How is the patient?" she says, sweeping past Luna into the room. "Or is it excessively optimistic of me to assume there is still only one?"

"Professor Snape is resting," Luna tells her. "He was rather exhausted, but I think he's alright. Harry is very weak, though."

Madam Pomfrey purses her lips. "Lead me to him," she says.

Luna guides Madam Pomfrey into the parlor and indicates Harry, seated on the sofa. She strides up to Harry and seats herself in the armchair Snape has recently vacated, as she runs a scan with her wand.

"Honestly," she says when she finishes. "If my infirmary were a place of business, those two would keep me in striped flannel nighties for a lifetime."

Luna fights not to laugh. "Harry and Professor Snape, you mean?"

"Quite." Madam Pomfrey peers down at Harry. "How do you feel Mr Potter?"

Harry blinks up at her. "I didn't see it, but I think it was a hippogriff. Ran me over."

Madam Pomfrey issues a snort that makes Luna wonder whether that is where Snape had learned it, when he was a student at Hogwarts. "I have no doubt that is precisely how you feel," she tells him. "Between the dehydration and the muscle strain you've probably got aches in places you never knew you had."

To Luna's alarm, and Madam Pomfrey's as well, Harry curls in on himself again, tears beginning to stream down his face. "Medicine's expensive," he mutters. "Not for freaks like me. Aunt Petunia said."

It would be a rather simple matter, Luna thinks, staring into Snape's fireplace and tightening her grip on Harry's hand, to floo to some wizard's home in Surrey and travel by broomstick to Harry's aunt's house there, if only she knew the right addresses. Luna isn't precisely sure what she would do once she had arrived, but she imagines she could come up with something on the way there. The way she feels just now, she would quite like to.

Madam Pomfrey is averting her gaze, and Luna can see she is struggling to maintain her usual brisk detachment. "My medicine is for you," she tells him, in a voice that brooks no argument. She opens her hand and taps the flat of her palm with her wand; a bottle of shimmering blue potion materializes there. She grips it between two fingers and begins to hand it to Harry—then, hesitating, hands it to Luna instead.

"Will he drink this?" she says.

"I think so," says Luna, examining it. "What is it?"

"A Re-Hydrating Potion, laced with a muscle relaxant."

Luna hands the vial to Harry, who looks at it dubiously.

"It's blue," he says. "And it smells funny."

"Yes," says Luna. "That's because it's magic."

"Oh. For freaks, then." Harry screws up his face, like a child anticipating a bad taste, and tips it into his mouth.

Madam Pomfrey gives a satisfied nod. "I'm afraid that's really all I can do for him just now. The stasis wrappings on his ribs should hold for the duration. I'm glad he's sitting calmly, at least—by rights, he should be in bed, but I suppose there's no help for that until the Draught runs its course." She shakes her head. "Honestly, I don't know what Severus was thinking, exposing students to a potion like that—he never did look before he leapt, that man."

"I'm sure he meant well," says Luna, feeling slightly defensive.

Madam Pomfrey only shakes her head again. "Well, is there anything I can do for you before I go, Miss Lovegood? Pepper-Up Potion, perhaps? I'd leave you with a Calming Draught, but you don't seem to need it, and Potter can't have it with the potion he's just taken."

"I'm fine, thank you," says Luna.

"Well, don't hesitate to call me through the floo if you should need me—what with one thing and another, I expect I'll be up most of the night." She holds up a hand as Luna starts to get up off the sofa. "No need to see me out, I can find my own way."

With a final nod, Madam Pomfrey sweeps from the room. Luna hears the click of the door to Professor Snape's quarters shutting a moment later.

"Shall I read to you some more?" she asks Harry, who is looking at her as though expecting her to vanish any moment.

"I just saw Madam Pomfrey," he says, sounding hesitant. "Was she—"

"Yes, she was here," Luna assures him, touching his hand. "And I'm here too."

Harry nods, then turns his gaze back to the fire. "Snape's gone, though," he says, sounding dejected.

"Yes, he had to go and rest," she says. "He didn't want to, but I told him he should."

"You're going to leave to," he says, in the same despondent voice.

"No, Harry," she says, scooting closer to him and taking his hand again. "I'm not."

"Everyone nice goes away," he insists, looking stubborn.

"Oh no," she tells him. "Not here. Don't you know where you are?"

Harry turns back to look at her, and shakes his head.

It is very strange, Luna thinks, and a little heartbreaking to see Harry like this. He is such a strong person; ever since she had met him last year she has felt herself gathered in under the protection of that strength, because he is so kind that it hadn't mattered to him that other people think her odd, or call her "Loony." When he looks at her he really seems to see her. And now she can see him too, both the strong person who tries to save everyone but himself, and the person he is in his dreams, as scared and lost as she feels herself to be sometimes, when she wakes up in the middle of the night with her mother's name on her lips, or comes home for the summers to see her father's distracted gaze pass right over her.

"You're in the cupboard, Harry," she says. "It's a magic cupboard, and it's always safe in here. It has everything you need, and the people who are here with you love you. It's a special place just for people like you and me. Nobody's a freak, here."

Harry stares at her with wide eyes, then looks all around him, as though seeing the room for the first time.

"It's bigger on the inside," he says wonderingly.

Luna laughs. "Yes."

"I'm dreaming this, aren't I?"

Luna smiles and squeezes his hand. "No, Harry," she says. "You aren't dreaming this."

She isn't alarmed when, a few seconds later, Harry begins to cry quietly. She knows the difference between one kind of crying and another, and these are not the desperate, hopeless tears she has no doubt he had cried earlier—they are, rather, tears of relief, and a kind of wild, half disbelieving joy.

Without any hesitation at all, she pulls him into her arms. He clings to her, and Luna finds herself as much comforted by the warmth as he seems to be by the embrace.

She does not notice when she begins to fall asleep, but she has a shrewd idea that she has been dozing for several hours when she wakes suddenly to the sound of a door opening and closing behind her. Gradually, she remembers where she is, and whose is the weight slumping heavily against her. More than this, however, she is aware of the sound of Harry's breathing—deep, and even, and slow. He is asleep.

Luna does not open her eyes. She does not want to move even the tiniest bit, for fear of waking him. But she can hear footsteps approaching, soft and slow, as though hesitant—and then a voice, speaking high over her head.

"Miss Lovegood," Snape says, in a soft, almost unrecognizable tone.

Still, she does not move, or give any sign that she is awake. She is very warm and comfortable here, and still very sleepy, and she feels as though she could lie here forever.

But then she hears the whispering sound of robes stirring nearby, and then a hand comes to rest lightly on her shoulder—and then (she wonders for an instant if she is still asleep, and dreaming it) the same hand brushes the hair back from her face and delicately traces the contour of her cheek. "Miss Lovegood," says the voice again—and then, softer still: "Luna."

Luna opens her eyes, and finds Snape kneeling on the floor beside them, his hand resting on the arm of the sofa.

"Professor," she says, blinking. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Don't apologize," he says, in a hoarse voice. He is staring at her with something like wonder.

"Harry is asleep," he continues, making it sound like a question.

"I know," she whispers.

"That—" Snape rocks back on his heels, shaking his head. "That should not be possible. The Draught—it stimulates the centers of the brain that—the agitation of the dreams alone should prevent—" He blinks, and shakes his head again. "What on earth did you do?"

"It's a magic cupboard," she murmurs sleepily.

Snape looks as though he has no idea what to say in reply to this. He stands up, shake his robes down over his hands. "What time is it?" she asks.

"Nearly four in the morning," he says. "You should return to your dormitory."

"I don't want to wake him," she says immediately.

In reply, Snape bends down. Realizing what he is about to do, she shifts up, disentangling Harry's arms from around her shoulders. Snape grips him under the arms and pull him upright, then wraps an arm around his chest and slides another under his knees. Straightening under his burden, he turns and carries Harry, who does not stir or open his eyes, out of the parlor and into the corridor.

Luna stands and stretches the stiffness from her back and legs, then turns and follows Snape to his room. She stands in the doorway, watching, as Snape lays Harry on the bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. He stands there beside the bed for a moment, gazing down at Harry, then turns back towards the door. Luna stands aside to let him through; he brushes past her, pulling the door halfway shut behind him, then places a hand on her shoulder and guides her back down the corridor toward the door of his chambers.

"May I come back and see him later?" she says as they walk.

"All things considered," he says, "I think that might be a good idea. Though if he is sleeping now, it is possible he may sleep until the Draught wears off."

"I do hope so," she says earnestly, "because that potion is really rather horrid."

They reach the door, and Snape reaches for the handle, opening it for her. Then he stops, looking down on her.

"You are," he says, "rather an astonishing child, Miss Lovegood."

Luna finds that she has no idea what to say to this, but her eyes, filling with tears, seem to have ideas of their own.

Snape's hand tightens on her shoulder for an instant. Then he releases her, and Luna, suddenly feeling as warm and happy as she had been in front of the fire, walks through the door and back to Ravenclaw Tower.


	7. for your immediate attention

As little as a week ago, Snape would have known exactly what to do with the free time that looms before him now that Luna Lovegood has worked her miracle and coaxed Potter into sleeping. He is never without work that needs doing, after all. There are always papers to grade, lessons to plan, private research to return to, and now that the chief source of his anxiety—namely Potter killing himself, or Snape, or both of them, while under the influence of the Draught—has been removed, he ought to be able to focus on some useful task until the boy wakes up and requires close nursing again. And yet, concentration eludes him. Every time he attempts to put quill to parchment, the blank spaces before his eyes fill with the image of two children, tangled in sleep upon his parlor sofa like nesting kittens, and he is again discomfited by the same unwelcome surge of emotion that the living tableau had produced.

Snape is fond of Luna Lovegood. He does not mind admitting this to himself, in the privacy of his own thoughts. There is no danger in liking her—no troublesome legacies attached to her face or name. She is a Ravenclaw, a pureblood, and her father is no nameable threat to the Dark Lord's cause. Snape could favor her publically if he chose, without worrying what tales Draco Malfoy might be carrying back to his father. He never will, of course—he has his reputation to consider, as a bastard if not as a Death Eater—but still, she is no threat to him. Rather the opposite, in fact; it is strangely comforting to know that she looks up to him (for she makes no secret of it), to know that, after all he has done, all the tarnish his soul has acquired, there remains within him some mote of goodness that an innocent of her quality can recognize, even value.

And she entertains him, which is no small accomplishment considering his temperament and the life he leads. She is not ordinary. True, her head has been filled with rubbish by that neglectful, no-account father of hers, but she yet possesses a clarity of perception, a forthright courage (so different from the bullheaded Gryffindor variety) that cannot but appeal to him, comparing it as he does to the generic mediocrity of most of her classmates. That she is reviled among them only heightens his regard for her—more than that, it has elevated what might have been a mere feeling of benevolence into a proprietary watchfulness that surprises him in its occasional ferocity. But he does not mind this either; after all, he knows what it is to be the target of petty juvenile vindictiveness, unchecked by a blithely self-satisfied Head of House—and she is the more vulnerable to it, not possessing the instinct or inclination to defend herself in such a way as to discourage further attack. Should she ever choose to apply that keen Ravenclaw intellect to the problem, her classmates might shortly find themselves surprised by the results; but like another aggravating child of his acquaintance, she does not seem to find her own safety cause for the effort. And so Snape keeps an eye out for her, where he can, and for his reward he finds, occasionally, that the voices of other children he has not been able to protect do not echo quite as loudly in his ears as they might. Too, he sometimes finds that the trust in her bright eyes warms him in cold hours. Luna always carries herself as though she is privy to some happy secret no one around her has guessed—sometimes Snape flatters himself that she carries his secrets with her as well, where they are redeemed for something greater than their original worth.

But now (and here is the source of his disquiet) she has allied herself with Potter—more than this, she has, by word and look and gesture, entrusted him with Potter's well-being, no less than Dumbledore had. And though Snape's feelings for the boy are still maddeningly confused, he finds that he shies from the idea of disappointing her faith in him. Had she demanded, or even asked, he might have refused—but she had simply trusted he would do right by her friend. She had not, however, troubled to explain what is entailed by right action in this context, and so Snape is left, as before, to fumble his way through this business, only now with twice the weight of expectation on his shoulders.

He fancies this is not the sort of quandary that any man should be expect to grapple competently with at four o'clock in the morning.

Still, it might be worse. It might be four o'clock in the morning with Potter awake and harrowing Snape's soul with lost and hopeless cries for a comfort he cannot give. He feels suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for Luna Lovegood, and finds himself wondering if it is too early in the school year to submit her name for an Award for Special Services to the School.

He manages at last to distract himself for an hour or so by washing up the three different dirty tea services littering his quarters and putting the dishes away, all without magic. He then makes tea for himself, along with a few pieces of buttered toast, having found that his appetite has returned to him with the unexpected peace and quiet, and settles in with a book that he finds open and face down on the table at the end of his sofa. When he had first spotted it, he had immediately begun rehearsing a lecture on the proper care and treatment of the volumes in his library, to be recited to the heedless girl at first opportunity—only to take a second look and find that the title (The Secret Garden) was not one he recognized, and that the name written in cerulean blue ink on the inside cover was not "S. Snape", but "Luna Polyhymnia Lovegood, age 8 1/2."

A Muggle book, he determines quickly by a look at the publisher's name, vaguely curious why a witch would have such a book in her possession at such a young age. Curiosity turns to amusement as he begins to read about a skinny, scrawny, sallow, ill-tempered orphan girl whom nobody likes, who reads vociferously and keeps to herself. He likes Mary Lennox, he decides, a bit startled to realize he has already reached the end of chapter three. She does not suffer fools—and she has an instinctual fascination for the properties of plants and herbals that reminds him of himself at the same age. It is with an unexpected pang of disappointment that he sets the books aside when a knock sounds at his door sometime later. He glances at the clock to discover it is already after six—of course, Dumbledore had said he would call in the morning. Snape answers the door to find the Headmaster standing there as expected, a grave and inquiring look on his face.

"Well, Severus," he says, stepping inside at Snape's invitation. "How are you faring?"

"Rather better than expected," Snape tells him, noting as he shuts the door how the Headmaster's eyes sweep the room for the boy. "Potter is asleep in bed."

The look of surprise on Dumbledore's face is rather gratifying. "However did you manage that?" he asks.

"I did not," Snape tells him. "It was Miss Lovegood's doing. No, I do not know how she managed it either. I left them alone for a time, and when I returned—" Snape spreads his hands and shrugs.

"You don't say." Dumbledore's eyebrows soar to his hairline. "That is indeed unexpected—and very good news.

"Was it not to such an end that you sent Miss Lovegood to me?" says Snape, voicing a suspicion he hadn't realized he was harboring.

"Not at all," says Dumbledore. "I simply knew that, of all Harry's friends, she was the one most likely to maintain her own composure in such a situation, and remain a steady and calming influence upon him. Upon you both, for that matter." He smiles faintly. "Well. Fifty points to Ravenclaw. It is always gratifying when those around us exceed our expectations."

"And, I suppose," says Snape, waving Dumbledore into a seat at the table and pouring tea for him before sitting himself, "equally less than gratifying when those expectations are disappointed." Best to get it out and over with, he thinks—when he was a child, he often used the same strategy to provoke his father's wrath before it had the chance to build up into something more violent than it would otherwise have been.

Dumbledore turns a sharp look on him, almost as though he had divined this reasoning. "If self-flagellation is your preferred means of coping with your disappointment in yourself, that is your affair, but I will not be the whip in your hand. If you have been waiting for a reprimand, you will wait awhile yet." His expression softens a bit, his voice becoming rather dry. "You can't honestly think I would accuse you of wanting to be in this position."

"True enough," Snape admits, sipping his tea to hide a flush, either of embarrassment or relief. "Very well then. Perhaps we may discuss other matters. What have you done to Vernon Dursley?"

"You do come right to the point." Dumbledore adds a thin slice of lemon to his tea, looking a bit amused. "What do you hope I have done to him?"

"Do not ask me that, Albus," Snape says warningly. "I left him to you for a reason."

"Yes, I confess myself to have been rather...touched by your letter." Dumbledore smiles faintly. "Vernon Dursley was removed from his home in Surrey at 7 o'clock yesterday evening, by Portkey. He was transported to my office, where I am afraid he was obliged to wait some little time while I attended to matters of importance elsewhere." Snape snorts into his tea cup, but Dumbledore merely smiles again. "When I joined him again, I attempted to persuade him what would happen should he attempt to make contact with Voldemort or any of his servants. I believe that in the end I made a sufficient impression that we need fear no further foolishness of the kind from him."

Snape give a single, tightly controlled nod of the head. What else had he expected? He had handed the man over to Dumbledore for a reason. He is no longer a Death Eater—he has forfeited the privilege of seeking his own revenge. If his frustration lacks an outlet, it is no more than he deserves for allowing matters to reach this crisis. He, Snape, had been charged with looking after the boy. He had failed. He deserves no relief.

"Did you see Petunia, when you returned Dursley to Surrey?" he manages to ask in a casual voice. "She may also need to be spoken to."

"Ah." Dumbledore clears his throat. "As it happens, Vernon Dursley did not return to Surrey."

"No?" Snape arches an eyebrow, not daring to say more.

"No." Dumbledore refills his tea cup. "He is in the hospital wing."

Snape blinks at the Headmaster, and it is only with the utmost effort he prevents his jaw from dropping. Dumbledore stirs his tea, a perfectly neutral expression on his face, but Snape can just catch a glimpse of something fierce in his eyes.

Well, if Dursley had provoked Dumbledore sufficiently to land himself in the hospital wing, there is only one logical question to ask. "Is he still alive?"

Dumbledore gives a snort of laughter at this. "Quite. And largely unharmed, I hasten to add." He glances up, meeting Snape's eyes, and whatever he sees there prompts him to continue in his explanation. "He was as resistant to reason as I'm sure you can imagine him to have been. After more than an hour of fruitless, cyclical argument, I decided an illustration of the point was in order."

"I don't dare hope it was the sort of illustration that leaps immediately to mind," Snape says dryly. Dumbledore would not wield the Unforgivables against a Muggle, whatever the provocation.

"A few carefully selected memories of mine, arrayed in a Pensieve, demonstrating a sampling of precisely what Voldemort is capable of." Dumbledore smiles. "Madam Pomfrey put him to bed with a Calming Draught afterwards. A bit harsh, perhaps, but I assure you it was a last resort."

Snape stares at the Headmaster, who looks back at him quite blandly. "I forget what you are, on occasion," Snape tells him after a moment. "I shall do so less often, in future."

Dumbledore chuckles. "Well, we all like to be appreciated for our abilities." He sobers. "It occurs to me that you did not answer my question earlier."

"Did I not?"

"Not to my satisfaction. How are you faring?"

Snape does miss the emphasis in the Headmaster's words. Nor does he know precisely how to make an answer—he cannot claim to be untroubled, not to a Legilimens of Dumbledore's caliber.

"You—truly—did not know what sort of life the boy led outside of school?" Snape feels himself to be stuttering, as though the tongue in his mouth is too dry to form words with tripping. "You hadn't any idea what his family was subjecting him to?"

He tries not to make the question sound like an accusation, but judging from the look on the Headmaster's face, it has been interpreted—and accepted—as such.

"Petunia Dursley loved her sister," says Dumbledore in a quiet voice, and Snape sees that his hand trembles slightly on the handle of his tea cup. "At least, she did once. I believe you know she once wrote to me as a child. She seemed a kind, bright girl—she hated the thought of being parted from Lily. I truly believed that as she grew to know her sister's child, she would remember that love. But there were...indications over the years that all was not as I hoped, and I admit to you, Severus—because you of all people have the best right to know, and judge me—I did not allow myself to inquire too closely. I did not want to be tempted to remove him."

Snape does not reply, simply continues to watch the other man intently. "I might have raised him myself; you must know that I considered it. I daresay that he would have been as safe with me as within the enclosure of the wards at his aunt's house. But—for reasons I cannot explain to you, I felt that I had to place him, as far as possible, beyond the reach of my own influence. Because I knew the fate he was born to, I did not trust myself to have any hand in his upbringing. Even when I realized that he was growing up unhappily, still I knew that he was growing up to be himself—not the inheritor of a destiny, not a weapon in my hand." Dumbledore shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "So much depended on him—I feared my own ambition. I had to let him go, had to trust in his mother's blood—not merely to keep safe, but to gift him with the same great power by which Lily saved his life. You, I think, must have seen—now that you are no longer deceived by appearances—how much he is his mother's son. I was so afraid of destroying him—because I would have loved him, and would the more easily have deceived myself into believing I could best protect him by molding him in my own image."

Snape is beginning to regret that he had ever opened this line of questioning. He has seen much that is terrible in his life, and yet even he finds himself flinching at the pain in Dumbledore's voice, and the stark inevitability of the picture he paints.

The next words that come from Snape's mouth do so without prompting, without his conscious consent.

"You might have given him to me," Snape whispers.

"I might," Dumbledore agrees, shocking Snape into silence. "And you would have done well by him. I believe that, Severus. But you were too close to me—you would have trusted me, more than you should—" Dumbledore breaks off, lifting a hand to his forehead. "You cannot know how much I wish there had been another way. That I had drawn him out more over the years, after he came to school. There was never any means to prevent him suffering, but he need not have suffered so much as he did."

"In that respect," Snape says quietly, "I too have failed him."

They sit in silence together for a moment, and when the Headmaster speaks again there is a surety in his voice, as though he has recovered himself.

"Does that mean," he says, "that you intend to rectify the matter, so far as you can?"

"What else have I been doing these last three days?" Snape says, startled by the harshness of his own voice. Dumbledore merely looks at him, and Snape's hand clenches on the table.

"In truth, I hardly know how," Snape amends, feeling suddenly as exhausted as he had before Luna had chivvied him off to bed. "Yet I wish—" He shakes his head. "Had I known three years ago, even two, I might have done something for him. But now, I am so deeply embroiled—Albus, you must know how little chance I have of surviving this infernal dance between you and the Dark Lord much longer. I have walked a tightrope too long, I must fall soon. And..." Snape finds himself whispering, as though he would rather not hear what he is forcing himself to say. "I would not add to Harry's grief."

There is, he thinks, no power on earth that could force him to meet Dumbledore's eyes after the words escape his lips. But Dumbledore does not attempt to catch his gaze.

"Do you wish now, after all your years of suffering, that you had never met Lily Evans?" Dumbledore says quietly.

Snape keeps his gaze trained upon the table. "At times."

A long moment of silence falls between them. "Truly?" says Dumbledore, sounding faintly scornful.

Snape closes his eyes. "No."

"Then you know what you must do." Snape looks back up at him; there is a sadness to Dumbledore's smile. "In any case, Severus, after all you have done for Harry—or rather, I should say, after all he now knows you have done for him, I rather think the damage is irreversible." Dumbledore's voice grows rather wistful. "He loves so easily..."

Snape thinks of his letters, carefully refolded and soft with much handling, tucked into the middle of the boy's book. "I know."

There is no telling what excesses of maudlin reflection Snape would have been tempted into, had the door to his bedroom not opened at that moment. Dumbledore looks up, and at the flash in his eye Snape turns around in his chair.

Potter is standing in the doorway at the end of the corridor, looking tousled and bleary as he approaches the kitchen—even from a distance, through the open doorway, Snape can see that his eyes are clearer than they have been in some time.

"Professor," he says, coming to stand just inside the kitchen. He blinks. "Headmaster?"

"Harry." Dumbledore rises to his feet, and Snape follows automatically, as one does in the Headmaster's presence. "How are you?"

"I'm not sure," says the boy. He scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Has it been three days already? I'd have thought I'd smell worse by now."

Snape casts a look over his shoulder, and Dumbledore meets his eyes. Snape looks back to the boy, who has watched this silent exchange with a tentative expression.

"Where are you now?" Snape asks him sharply. "What do you see?"

"Er," Potter looks at him, confused. "In your quarters, Professor. In the—kitchen, I guess? You brought me here because I was covered in that Waking Dreams potion—I just woke up in bed, so I reckoned it was the third day and I'd finished sleeping it off, like you said I would." He arches an eyebrow inquiringly, as though waiting to be corrected.

Snape erodes the distance between them in two long strides, withdrawing his wand and extending his hand. "Give me your arm."

Potter looks at him, warily, but he obeys. He does not even glance towards Dumbledore for confirmation first, and Snape knows that this is the surest testament that something indefinable has altered between them.

Snape wraps his fingers around the boy's thin wrist and finds his pulse even and steady. He releases him then, and runs a diagnostic scan with his wand—nothing as thorough as Pomfrey could manage, but competent enough for practical purposes.

"Well, Potter," he says when he has finished, a little relieved to find his voice firm, not hoarse. "You seem to have emerged more or less intact. Congratulations."

"Right," says Potter, pushing his sleeve back down his arm. "Thanks, Professor." He does glance at Dumbledore then, and then back to Snape. "So...I guess I should go back to my dorm now? Or is dinner still being served? I'm starving."

"You cannot return to your dormitory yet, Harry," Dumbledore tells him, even as Snape has opened his mouth to issue the boy a curt explanation of the matter. Dumbledore places a hand on Potters shoulder. "Come back to bed, and then your questions will be answered."

Still looking between them uncertainly, Potter allows himself to be guided back down the corridor toward the bedroom. Snape follows, already wondering how is going to explain the boy's recovery when he does not understand it himself. Once inside the room, Potter walks to the bed and angles a hip onto the mattress, then glances down at himself dubiously.

"Ah," Dumbledore says, as though he has understood something the boy has not said. "Shall I Transfigure your clothing into pyjamas? Perhaps with a freshening charm?"

Blushing a little, Potter nods, and Dumbledore taps his shoulders with his wand. The wrinkled remnants of the boy's uniform becomes a set of white and blue striped pyjamas, with sharp creases down the legs and arms, as though they have been recently laundered and pressed.

With another wave of the Headmaster's wand, the covers rise up and tuck themselves around the boy's body to the waist—he is sitting up against the pillows, a growing expression of consternation on his face.

"Sir," he says to Dumbledore, "is anything wrong? Only you and Professor Snape are both acting like there's something you don't want to tell me."

"No, Harry," says Dumbledore immediately. "Nothing is wrong. Quite the contrary. I shall, however, allow Professor Snape to explain, as there is a small matter which urgently needs my attention in the hospital wing." Dumbledore catches Snape's eye, and Snape nods his understanding. Yes, now the boy is awake and lucid, best to have Vernon Dursley out of the castle doors at the first opportunity.

"I shall come to call and see how you are later, Harry," Dumbledore says. "I am extremely pleased to see you so well recovered. Severus, I shall speak with you later."

And then he is gone, the sound of his robes trailing along the floor following him down the corridor. Snape stands at the foot of the bed, feeling suddenly rather awkward, as Potter turns a questioning look on him.

"Sir—" he begins, but Snape cuts him off.

"You are hungry, I believe you said?" Potter nods. "I shall bring you something. You will eat before we talk. Wait here."

Snape heads, not for the kitchen, but for the parlor; he doesn't feel up to cooking, and at any rate the house elves will begin serving breakfast any moment. He throws a handful of powder into the floo, and orders a tray—the one he gets in return has enough food for three people. Or one sixteen year old boy, he supposes.

He floats the tray down the hall before him and directs it to settle across Potter's lap. The boy's eyes light up at the sight of the food, but he glances questioningly at Snape before reaching for it—as though he is used to asking permission before he eats.

"Eat as much of it as you can," he says. "You have been fasting awhile."

Potter reaches for a fork, then pauses. "Sir," he says, "this is breakfast stuff. What time is it? I thought..."

"It is six thirty in the morning, Potter," Snape tells him. And then, because he knows it will lead into a long conversation, he draws the armchair up to the side of the bed and has a seat in it. "Saturday morning."

Potter stops in the act of buttering his toast. "Saturday, Professor?" His brow furrows. "But—wasn't it Friday when—didn't you say—"

"It was, and I did." Snape's mouth twists in a smile. "You ought to have been under the influence of the Draught for seventy-two hours, all told. And yet, here you are, less than twenty-four hours later, miraculously recovered. I suppose there is occasionally something to be said for your utter disregard for rules."

Potter merely blinks at him. "I don't understand," he says. "Was it—did you find an antidote, sir?"

"I did nothing, Potter," Snape informs him curtly. "I do not have a satisfactory explanation for your recovery. You fell asleep a mere twelve hours after your exposure, and I believe that is responsible for your present lucidity. Entering a state of natural sleep enabled the Draught to run its course at an advanced pace—that is the normal effect of the potion, save that you should not have reached the sleep stage until forty-eight hours had passed." Snape pauses, considering, then adds, "I believe you have Miss Lovegood to thank for that."

"Luna?" says Potter. "What did she—wait." He looks thoughtful. "Luna...she was...no, maybe not, I just—"

"She was here," Snape nods. "Yesterday evening. I left you alone with her for a time. When I rejoined you, you had fallen asleep. Apparently during my absence she managed to contravene the laws of nature. I have not yet had the chance her to ask what she did." Snape eyes him narrowly. "I don't suppose you recall?"

Potter stares down at his breakfast tray for a long moment. "All I remember is being scared," he says in a quiet voice that does an odd thing to Snape's throat. "Just...scared and alone, and then...safe." He looks up. "I felt safe. I don't know what happened."

Again, Snape remembers how Potter and Luna had looked, nestled together on the sofa before the fire. Considering how the boy had spent the first few hours under the Draught, he can well believe he had felt safe there by comparison.

"No matter," Snape says, waving his hand. "The details are a matter for the researchers, not the patient. There is nothing more for you to do but lie there and recover from the physical impact of the explosion. Curtailed though your ordeal with the Draught may have been, even twelve hours of throwing yourself about and running to and fro did your injuries no good. Are you in any pain?"

A mulish look and a quick denial answer his question. "Not really."

Snape resists rolling his eyes with an effort. "Of course. You'll be up doing calisthenics in an hour, no doubt." He pulls his wand from his sleeve and waves it once—then, after a moment's thought, twice. A long, thin vial of amber potion sails through the open door towards his outstretched hand, followed by Potter's wand.

"Your wand," he says, handing it back to the boy, who receives it gratefully, "and a potion, for relief of pain." He does not break the seal over the stopper, but places it on the bed within Potter's reach. "You'll realize you want it sooner or later. No more than half the vial in a three hour time period."

"Thanks, Professor," says Potter, studying the vial on the bed without reaching for it. "For everything, I mean, staying with me and—everything." There is a slightly miserable look on his face, and privately Snape wonders just how much of the previous twenty four hours he does remember.

"I distinctly recall having had this conversation once already," he tells him, making no effort to conceal his impatience. "I am not enjoying it any more the second time."

Potter flushes. Snape ignores this, getting to his feet and tugging his robes into place. "Your school bag is still on the floor by the bed, where you left it Friday. Go back to sleep if you can—the pain reliever will help with that, if you can choke back enough of your pride to pour it down your throat. Otherwise, I suppose you can spend the morning studying. Whatever you choose, you are to stay in bed. I am going to my office to work. If you have need of me, summon a house elf and tell them."

And with that, Snape turns his back on the boy, telling himself that he is glad to do so, that ridding himself of the sight of Potter, pale and prone and sad looking, will be nothing but a relief to him. He strides from the room, down the corridor, and out through his chamber door, where he turns for his office and begins the process of attempting to convince himself.

Harry sits upright in the bed and stares down at the breakfast tray in front of him until the tea is cold and the butter on his toast is a pool of greasy liquid.

He lasts about five minutes, all told, before he finally gives in and reaches for the vial of potion on the bed beside him. He finds he cannot break the seal with his fingers, so he takes his wand in hand and points it at the vial.

"Diffindo," he says, and before his eyes the entire vial cracks into hundreds of tiny pieces, covering his hand in amber liquid.

Harry is suddenly extremely glad that Snape has left his chambers, because he feels, rather horribly, like bursting into tears. He doesn't, though; he is able, after a few moments, to open his eyes without feeling as though they are about to start leaking, and his voice, after a few breaths, is steady enough to say "Damn" without cracking.

He had been telling the truth when he had told Snape that he didn't remember much of what had happened over the last twelve hours. He can't get pictures of any of it in his mind, just feelings. What he hadn't told Snape, however, was just how intense those feelings had been—still are, really, because remembering them is the same thing as living them again. He dimly recalls that Snape had warned him to expect mood swings and intense emotions after he woke up, and if it had been just that, or just the fact that he feels like one giant bruise from hip to shoulder, he figures he could probably have kept himself together better than he's doing. But both things at once—and now losing the pain relief potion on top of it—makes him feel as though he's about to crack right down the middle and spill his guts onto Snape's embroidered counterpane.

Harry bunches the covers in his hands and grits his teeth until the moment of weakness passes; then he forces himself to take a few deep breaths and consider the situation like someone who's about to come of age in a year, and not like some stupid brat who can't see past the end of his own dripping nose. He has a problem—namely, lots of horrible pain—and he needs to solve it. Put like that, he realizes, the solution is perfectly obvious—all he needs to do is get another pain relieving potion.

The only problem is that Harry is not Hermione, and he doesn't think he could nerve himself up to stealing a potion from Snape's supplies even if he actually was dying, not just in so much pain that he wishes he were. Knowing Snape, there are probably wards over his personal stores that will turn him into an orangutang if he so much as thinks of trying to break them. Of course, he could call for Snape and ask him for another potion—but that would involve, first, admitting he needs it, and second, disturbing Snape less than ten minutes after he'd left the room in the first place—and Harry finds he isn't willing to do either of these things. He remembers exactly enough of what had happened while he was under the influence of the Draught to know Snape has probably already had as much of a miserable, needy Harry Potter as he can stand for a lifetime, and if Harry has his way he won't be asking him for so much as a scrap of parchment for the remainder of his Hogwarts career.

This leaves him one option, and it's not a pretty one. Delaying the inevitable, however, will only make it worse in the end—and so, Harry levitates the mostly untouched breakfast tray to the end of the bed, ends the Transfiguration on his pyjamas to turn them back to school clothes, and gathers his things back into his school bag—his Transfigurations text is lying on the floor apart from the others, and he wonders vaguely what it is doing so far away from his bag. He very nearly turns to make up the bed when he realizes that after everything that's happened, Snape will probably want clean sheets on it before he sleeps in it again, and that furthermore Hogwarts has house elves for that sort of thing. He sets his bag on top of the rumpled covers and sits down at the desk along the wall by Snape's bed, wondering, as he draws a sheet of parchment from the loose stack in the corner, and dips the nib of the eagle feather quill lying to the side of it into a bottle of ink, if this is where Snape had sat to write the letters he had sent Harry last week, and whether he will ever write to him again after everything Harry has put him through.

Dear Professor Snape, he writes

I broke the vial of pain relief potion you left for me—it was an accident, I'm sorry—so I've gone to the infirmary to ask Madam Pomfrey for another one. I figure once I'm there I might as well stay—it's not like you've got a guest room and I don't want to keep you from your bed or your bathroom. Thank you again for looking after me all through the weekend, I really appreciate it a lot. See you on Monday.

Sincerely, Harry Potter

Harry doesn't both folding the letter—he simply carries it with him into the kitchen and places it there on the dining table, where Snape will see it as soon as he walks back through the door of his quarters. The last thing he needs is for Snape to think he's gone missing and raise a furor because the note's slipped down behind a cushion or under the bed or something.

He hoists his school bag, which feels a lot heavier to carry now that every muscle and sinew in his back and shoulders is screaming in protest, and slips noiselessly through the door of Snape's quarters, only realizing once he is on the other side that he has never been in this part of the dungeons before and doesn't know precisely where he is. He does, however, have the Marauder's Map, folded into a back pocket of his bag; after a quick consult he is oriented again, and quickly locates the nearest staircase to put him on the path to the hospital wing. He forces himself to walk slowly, despite how much he wants to get there and lie down again; he doesn't imagine that falling down halfway there will improve the situation any.

It takes him fully twenty minutes to finally reach the corridor leading up to the hospital wing; fortunately the hour is still so early that he doesn't pass anybody on the way there. He doesn't fancy the idea of trying to explain himself to one of the teachers, who must surely all know by know what had happened on Friday. He's just passed the statue of Hippolyta the Healer when he hears someone say his name from somewhere behind him—and for just a moment, he is convinced that he must be having a relapse, or else that he has been dreaming everything, from waking up and talking to Snape and Dumbledore, to making his way here, because the voice is one he recognizes, and it isn't one that he ought to be hearing here, of all places.

The fact that he can hear it makes Harry hope that he's only having a nightmare.

"Potter!" it shouts. Then: "Boy!"

Harry freezes. Then he turns, slowly, to find Uncle Vernon, purple-faced with rage, bearing down on him like the Hogwarts Express under full steam.

Harry hasn't got time to do more than take two steps backwards before Vernon has caught up to him, wrapped two meaty hands around his throat, and driven him backwards hard against the nearest stone wall. Already gasping for air around the choking hold on his neck, Harry tries and fails to gasp as the impact electrifies the already dull ache in his bones into pulsing agony.

He is dimly aware that Vernon is saying something—he catches words and phrases such as "psycho" and "murdered in our beds"—but the longer Vernon holds onto him, the more roughly he shakes him, the louder the roaring noise in Harry's ears seems to become, and the more clouded his vision grows. He knows he should be reaching for his wand, but he doesn't dare stop trying to pry Vernon's hands from his neck, because he can't breathe and any second now he's going to pass out, and then it'll be his neck joining the collection of bones Vernon has already broken over the last few months, and he has the idea that however good wizards are at mending things, a neck might just be beyond them...

And then, suddenly, Harry remembers that he is dreaming—he must be dreaming—because a long, bony white hand emerges from the darkness gathering like a halo around Uncle Vernon's head to close tightly on his shoulder—and then Uncle Vernon is reeling backwards, and Harry's neck is free of his hands, not because they have released him but because they have been wrenched away, the bruising fingers digging in with fingernails until the last inch of skin has slipped through their grasp. Harry sucks in several gasping breaths, and his vision begins to clear just in time to see Snape shoving Uncle Vernon against a stone column a few feet away from where Harry is standing, pinning the shorter man in place with his wand, which is aimed level with his neck.

There is a look on Snape's face that Harry has never seen before—which is saying something, considering that over the years Harry has fairly become an expert in Snape's angriest looks. Snape, Harry realizes, is somewhere quite beyond anger at the moment—there is something wild and furious and absolutely deadly in his stance, as he towers over Uncle Vernon with trembling shoulders and a snarl that shows every last one of his crooked teeth. His eyes are bright and glittering with rage and the hand that isn't holding his wand is clenched into a tight fist at his side. For just a moment, watching the knuckles of that fist grow whiter and more bloodless, looking from Snape's livid expression to the abject terror in his uncle's face, Harry is quite convinced that Snape might kill Vernon—that he means to do so, and to enjoy doing it.

All these thoughts cross his mind in the space of three seconds or less—and then the pain catches up to him, and all coherent thought is driven entirely from his mind. Still trying to catch his breath, he finds it almost impossible around the sob that is building in his throat, as his knees give way and he sinks down the wall with a noise he doesn't recognize as anything that could possibly have come out of his own mouth. He does not take his eyes from Snape and Uncle Vernon, convinced as he is that murder is about to be done at any moment—but even as he cries out, Snape's head jerks to look over his shoulder at Harry, and there is a look in his eyes that Harry has definitely never seen before—especially not directed at him.

Snape turns back to look at Uncle Vernon, who is wheezing for breath himself by now, and a spasm of loathing twists his mouth even further. Then his lips compress in a hard line, and the set of his shoulders relaxes by a fraction. He draws back his wand and cries "Stupefy!" and in the next second Uncle Vernon's unconscious body has dropped to the floor with a groaning noise like a collapsing building.

For a moment afterwards, Harry can hear no sound in the corridor save that of his own ragged breathing, And then, with a faint stab of self-disgust, he realizes that he is crying, and that his much-abused throat is producing high pitched, almost whimpering noises with every inhalation.

Whether Snape hears it or not, Harry cannot tell. Snape stands, staring down on Vernon for a long moment, as though there is something more he would like to do to him. But then he turns, slowly, back in Harry's direction, and for a moment their eyes meet—and then Harry hides his face in his hands, because the last bloody thing on earth he needs is to make eye contact with a bloody Legilimens while he's feeling the way he feels right now.

He sits there like this for awhile, hunched in on himself, trying to look small as possible—it is the most practical available alternative to what he really wants to do, which is throw himself into a deep hole in the ground and never face daylight again. Eventually he becomes aware of movement quite close to him—the whisper of a trailing robe, the brush of a hand sliding down the wall over his head. Someone is sitting on the floor beside him—suddenly, irrationally worried that Vernon has woken up again, Harry lifts his eyes and finds Snape is sitting with his knees up, his head leaning back against the wall. There is an expression of infinite exhaustion around his eyes and mouth, as though half the life has been drained out of him.

Harry is horribly aware of his wet face, of the tears still streaming from his eyes, and how these things must look to Snape, but this time he cannot look away.

"I thought you were going to kill him," Harry whispers hoarsely.

Snape exhales violently. "For a moment," he says, sounding quite as tired as he looks, "so did I."

And then Harry has to look down again, because a fresh wave of pain is crashing over him. He ducks his head and knots his hand in his hair and tries to bite down on a sob by gritting his teeth. But then a wiry arm circles his shoulders, fingers knotting in the sleeve of his shirt; he is being pulled down against a surface that is soft but solid, and hands are working gently but inexorably to disentangle Harry's fingers from his hair. Harry finds his breath quickening in something that is almost but not quite like panic—unfamiliarity, perhaps, since he can't remember the last time he cried, let alone the last time anyone held him while he cried—and then he hears Snape's voice, not soothing, not even gentle, but firm, and maybe even kind, telling him to breathe, to calm himself and simply breathe.

Harry's hands close in the folds of the black robes filling his vision on all sides like the walls of a dark cupboard, and does his best to obey.


	8. handle with care

The bloody haze does not completely retreat from the edges of Snape's vision until at last he manages to tear his eyes away from Dursley's prone form and take a good look at Harry, sprawled on the floor with his back up against the wall. His eyes are wide, his face pale, and the long scratches Dursley has carved into his neck are bleeding sluggishly, staining the white collar of his uniform shirt with red. Harry looks away almost immediately after their eyes meet. He rests his elbows on his knees and presses the heels of his hands to his forehead, muffling his mouth with his wrists as though to silence the small hitching sounds he makes as he tries to breathe around the tears and the bruising of his throat. There are two spots of color high on his cheekbones, highlighting his pallor; Snape knows the boy well enough by now to recognize it for a blush of shame.

When Snape glances again at Vernon Dursley he finds that his rage has died, like a fire bereft of fuel. In its place, there is an emptiness, a weariness, that does nothing to protect him from the bitter shame of his failure, once again, to keep Harry from harm. The desire to punish, so overwhelming a few minutes ago, has faded, and now he wants nothing save to quiet the desperate little noises the boy is making. Sheathing his wand, he walks over to where Harry sits and sinks to the ground beside him, leaning his head back against the cool stone wall. He feels drained and brittle, like a sponge that has been wrung dry and left to grow stiff and desiccated.

Harry looks up after a moment and Snape sees that his face is wet, his eyes red with weeping. Now that he is closer, he can see the gouges in his skin, the livid red and purple streaks that will become bruises in a few hours. He can feel his fury rekindling, until the boy snatches it from his mind by speaking of it aloud.

"I thought you were going to kill him," he says in a voice so rough that Snape's own throat hurts to hear it.

Snape remembers the livid fear which had gripped him when he had returned to his quarters and found the boy's note on the table—how utterly and completely he had cursed himself for a fool. He ought to have warned Harry that Dursley was on the castle grounds, should never have left him alone in the first place, should have tipped the vial of potion down his protesting throat and watched over him until he went back to sleep. Instead, like a coward, he had run away rather than risk Harry seeing how far he had been affected by the events of the last twenty four hours, only to come running back down the corridor just in time to see Dursley pin him to the wall. Such had been his extremity that, yes, he had, for an instant, been on the point of murder—but then he had remembered Harry, and realized none of that was as important as remaining—as Dumbledore had said—available for him.

"For a moment, so did I," he confesses, and the boy hides his face again immediately, as though there is something in Snape's admission that disturbs him. He is so quiet that only by the trembling of his shoulders does Snape realize he is crying.

Later, Snape will marvel how naturally it comes to him—looping his arm around the thin shoulders, tugging downwards until Harry's resistance gives way and he collapses against Snape's chest. He pries Harry's fingers loose from tugging at his hair, and this leads logically to cradling the back of his head with his palm, pressing that weary head to his shoulder. There is a stiffness to Harry's posture that reminds Snape how he had held himself while sitting at the table in the Great Hall during his very first Welcoming Feast—as though he had hardly believed it possible that such food could exist, much less that he should have any right to it. Snape lays the other hand against Harry's back, feeling his racing heartbeat through skin and cloth, and bows his head over the boy's bent neck, as though by wishing hard enough he could fashion a shelter for him of his own useless bone and muscle.

"Calm yourself," he whispers, not caring whether or not Harry minds him. He is speaking as much to himself as to the boy. "You must calm yourself. Breathe deeply. Try to believe you are safe."

How long they remain like this he cannot tell; he has closed his eyes, and all sensation, save that of the warm body beside him and the sharpness of his own breathing, is distant, meaningless to him. Not until he hears Dumbledore's voice, sharp and commanding, does he lift his own head again and find the Headmaster kneeling before him, extending an arm to grasp his shoulder.

"Severus," he says as though repeating himself, and there is a note of relief in his voice as Snape meets his eyes.

"Dursley is Stunned," Snape says automatically, hearing himself as though from a great distance away. "I exercised all the forbearance I possess in limiting myself to that—you had better take charge of him, Dumbledore, he damn near killed the boy—" Snape finds his hand bunching reflexively in Harry's shirt, as the image of Dursley throwing him against the wall replays in his memory like a reel from a Muggle movie.

Dumbledore favors him with a wry smile. "I am flattered you believe my forbearance so much greater than yours—I am less certain of it myself. Still—" Dumbledore shifts slightly and points his wand at Dursley. Thin black ropes spring from the tip and bind the bulky form securely from head to foot.

Harry shifts in Snape's arms then, and he scrubs furiously at his face with the cuff of shirt before turning and looking up at the Headmaster. He reveals the crimson gashes on his neck in doing so, and Snape does not miss the answering flash in Dumbledore's eyes, or the tightening of his mouth. When Dumbledore speaks, however, his voice is quite calm.

"Harry," he says, "may I heal you?"

Harry blinks at him twice, then nods mutely. Dumbledore points his wand at him, drawing a semi-circle around Harry's neck—the gashes close, and the bruising fades. Even the bloodstains vanish from his collar.

"Anywhere else?" he says quietly, and Harry shrugs.

"I hurt all over," he says in a faintly apologetic voice that makes Snape want to shake him. He tightens his grip on the boy's shoulder instead, sickeningly cognizant of how much pain he must be feeling to make even so grudging an admission as that.

Dumbledore nods, rising to his feet. "Minerva," he says, and for the first time Snape notices McGonagall standing a few feet back, looking down on the three of them with watery, astonished eyes in a pale face. "Escort Harry into the infirmary, please."

Taking his cue, Snape relinquishes his hold on the boy and climbs to one knee. He feels strangely cold now the warm body is no longer pressed close to him. He keeps a tight hold on Harry's arm, and pulls more than helps him to his feet. He releases him once he is steady, and does not allow himself to prevent McGonagall stepping in to take his place. Only then does Harry look up, finding Snape's eyes and seeming uncertain.

"Go with her, Potter," he says gently, and at last the boy allows himself to be guided away. Snape stands watching him until he and McGonagall round the corner and disappear through the doors of the infirmary. Then he looks at Dumbledore, who is watching him watch Harry with an intent expression.

"All right, Severus?" he says quietly.

"No," says Snape. "But there is no help for that." He press his fingers to his forehead for an instant, noting as he does so that the white cuff of his shirt is stained with Harry's blood. He drops his arm again. "What in God's name happened, Dumbledore? Why was he roaming the corridors? Since when are Muggles given the liberty of this castle?"

Snape is aware that he is treading perilously close to the borders of acceptable familiarity with the Headmaster of the school, but he considers that, given the choice between venting his spleen and imploding from the pressure, Dumbledore would prefer he do the former. Potions masters are less easily come by than Defense teachers, after all.

"He awoke this morning quite as distraught as he had been when he arrived in the infirmary yesterday evening," Dumbledore tells him in a subdued voice, without acknowledging his disrespect. "Madam Pomfrey was reluctant to subdue him by magic, being uncertain of the protocol involving Muggles in such situations. She tried to call me, but I was already on my way—and being unaware of the urgency of the situation, I stopped en route to inform Miss Lovegood, Miss Granger and Mr Weasley of Harry's recovery." Dumbledore eyes him then with a neutral look that is nearly as devastating as a glare. "How did Harry come to be in this wing of the castle?"

Snape does not trust his voice so far as to make a verbal reply. Wordlessly, he extracts Harry's crumpled note from his pocket and hands it to Dumbledore, whose eyes scan it in a moment.

"Yes," says Dumbledore, returning it to him with a sigh. "That is like him."

"I ought to have anticipated it," Snape says roughly, thrusting the paper in his pocket again.

"Well, now you know how deeply ingrained his reticence is, I am sure you will do a better job in future," Dumbledore says evenly.

Snape turns away. He does not think he can bear to be forgiven for this. "What of him?" he says roughly, with a curt nod to Dursley, lying on the floor at their feet. "You cannot send Harry back to his house again, bodyguard or no."

"No," Dumbledore agrees quietly, to Snape's surprise. "No, I cannot. I shall have to think of something else for Harry. As for Vernon, I have something in mind—but it will have to wait. In the mean time—"

Dumbledore points his wand at Dursley, who rises head first into the air. "I shall, as you suggest, take charge of him myself. And you, I imagine, will want to return to Harry."

Strangely, Snape finds that acknowledging this to be true gives him no pain. "Yes."

"Then I will speak with you soon," says Dumbledore, raising his wand and conducting his macabre marionette down the corridor before him.

Snape finds Harry, not in any of the infirmary beds, but on a cot in Pomfrey's office, away from the giggling throng of spotty Hufflepuff girls in the main ward.

"I am beginning to think," Pomfrey says darkly as he enters, "that you ought not be given charge of a dog anyone was fond of, Severus."

"It wasn't his fault," says Harry flatly, before Snape has a chance to reply. "He told me to stay in bed."

"Yes. I did," says Snape, allowing himself the comfort of irritation at last. "I don't suppose you have anything like a rational excuse for trekking to the other side of the castle in quest of a potion I keep in ample supply in my own stores?"

Harry flushes and looks away. "Didn't want to bother you," he mutters.

"I gave you clear instructions!" Snape hisses, leaning over the cot. Harry blanches and jerks back slightly; Snape straightens, clamping down on his frustration. "Satisfy my curiosity. Do you defy all orders on principle, or only mine?"

"It was my own fault I spilled the potion, all right? I didn't see any point calling you back from your office when I could get more on my own!" Harry bursts out. "You'd been looking after me all weekend. I just figured you'd had enough of me."

Snape meets and holds his gaze for a long moment. Harry looks frustrated with him, as though there is some obvious, but unspoken reason for his behavior that Snape has failed to perceive.

He shouldn't do it—he knows this—but he cannot afford to misunderstand the boy any more than he has done already, and he cannot wait for Harry to decide to trust him. Steeling himself, he mutters a wordless prayer for forgiveness—whether to Albus, or to his father's oft-invoked God, he cannot tell—and brushes the surface of Harry's mind with his own.

A moment later he takes a step back, reeling. He feels breathless, tiny and trapped. He feels like a child so dirty and insignificant that he deserves nothing better than to be shut up in a cupboard and forgotten about.

He blinks, in an effort to clear his vision. Harry is staring at him, panic in his eyes—only now, behind it, he can perceive the shadows of a cavernous longing.

"Harry," he breathes, so quietly he can barely hear himself. His fists clench in his robes, and his voice roughens. "Don't be an idiot."

"If he is an idiot, then he is in excellent company," Pomfrey tells him with a glare. "Where he will, unfortunately, have to remain for awhile longer. He cannot afford a case of dragon pox on top of everything else—he will have to go back with you."

"I never intended otherwise," Snape says, amazed his voice does not shake, and though the reply is directed at Pomfrey, he looks at Harry as he speaks.

Harry glances away, and shuts his eyes. "If it's just bed rest I need, I could go back to my dormitory—"

"One. more. word." Snape snarls, no longer able to control himself. "One more word out of you, Potter, and I will hex your tongue to the roof of your mouth."

Harry flushes miserably and shrinks down on the bed.

Ten minutes later Pomfrey releases him, once she has elicited from him the admission that yes, he still feels quite bad, but the potion is helping. He had sat there for three and a half minutes insisting he was in no pain whatsoever, until Pomfrey had informed him tartly that if that were the case, he would need to be taken to St Mungo's immediately to check for nerve damage.

Snape stands by—not hovering, he tells himself, merely watching—as Harry angles himself off the cot and sets both feet on the floor with a controlled wince. He looks from side to side and frowns.

"Um, Professor," he says, "you didn't happen to see what happened to my bag, did you? I had it when Uncle Vernon—"

He silences himself suddenly, and Snape no longer has to wonder why—he knows exactly what the boy is feeling, and it repulses him so much he cannot form words to correct him.

Well, no. That is not true, precisely. He has words—a number of them—but they will keep until he has the boy alone again—tied down, for preference, or at least behind a locked door.

"I believe it is still in the corridor," he says, and walks deliberately to the door, opening it, and waiting for Harry to precede him through it.

Harry looks as though crossing the distance from the cot to the door might be too much for his strength, and Snape is tempted to conjure a stretcher for him. But he knows Harry would fight him over it, and after what Dursley has done to him Snape does not think he could bring himself to force him. So he waits, almost patiently, as Harry walks to the door—not quite limping, and not meeting his eyes as he passes by. Snape gives a nod over his shoulder to Madam Pomfrey, then follows Harry, shutting the door of her office behind him.

They walk in silence back to Snape's quarters, pausing only long enough for Harry to attempt to pick up his bag from where it had fallen in the corridor and for Snape to snatch it away from him, slinging it over his own shoulder. At last they arrive outside the portrait of Merlin and Nimue that guards the entrance to his chambers; Snape releases the wards, and chivvies the boy inside. The moment the door has closed behind them, he points in the direction of the bedroom door.

"Inside. Bed. Now." He drops Harry's bag on the kitchen table. "I will send for a house elf to bring your clothes down from Gryffindor Tower. Do you want any personal items to accompany them?"

Harry pauses. "Um. Just, the rest of my textbooks, I guess. And the book on my night stand."

Snape nods—then indicates the bedroom again with a jerk of his head. Harry turns in that direction, and Snape walks through the parlor door to floo for the kitchens, where he directs the house elf who answers to pack Harry's things for him.

Five minutes later, two neatly wrapped parcels—one of clothing, one of books—appear with a pop before his eyes. He carries them into the bedroom—Harry, still fully dressed, is sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the floor.

Snape places the books on his night stand, and hands the bundle of clothing to Harry. "My bathroom is through there," he says, indicating a door in the opposite wall. "Go and change."

Snape takes advantage of the boy's absence to turn down the coverlet and sheets, which have been changed by the house elves since he was last here. Harry emerges a minute later in a tee-shirt and jeans.

"Just didn't feel like pyjamas," he mutters at Snape's questioning look. "I don't really feel sleepy."

There's no point arguing about it, so Snape simply stares at him until he folds himself into the bed, scooting back against the headboard with a mulish look that suggests he considers maintaining an upright posture to be an act of defiance. It suits Snape, however—for the conversation he has in mind, it will be just as well if the boy is facing him from a position of (relative) strength.

Snape draws the chair up close beside the bed and seats himself there with a self-consciously magisterial flap of his robes. He fixes Harry with his eyes and lets him squirm for a moment before speaking.

"I am attempting to get a clear picture in my mind of how we come to find ourselves in our current position," Snape tells him in a level voice.

"What position is that, sir?" says Harry sharply.

Snape resists a smile. He never would have thought to see the day when Harry's insolence would be a comfort to him. "Perhaps I should say, how you come to find yourself in the position of recovering from traumatic injury for the third time in less than a week—twice at the hands of the same person." He pauses, and Harry looks away. Snape presses on. "You left my rooms and made your way to the hospital wing. You were within sight of its doors, I presume, when you fell afoul of Vernon Dursley." He waits; there is no response, not even a confirmatory nod. "Did you not see him coming?"

"No," says Harry, in a subdued voice.

"Why not?"

"I don't know." Harry crosses his arms over his stomach. "He was behind me. I guess I must have passed him without seeing him at first."

"I see." Privately, Snape wonders how anyone could overlook the bulk of Vernon Dursley in that narrow corridor, but for the moment he allows it to pass. "When did you become aware of his presence?"

"He shouted at me," Harry says, his voice dull and flat. "I heard him say my name—he called me 'boy'. He always calls me that. That's when I knew it was him." A pause, then, "I thought I had to be dreaming, still, at first. I just couldn't believe that he could actually be here—at Hogwarts, I mean."

Snape is just as glad that Harry isn't meeting his eyes at the moment; he clamps down on the guilt twisting inside him and plows onwards. "And when did you realize you were not, in fact, dreaming?"

"I don't—" Harry breaks off, and swallows. "Not until he was actually—at me, I don't think. I just...I turned around, and I saw him coming, and I just...it felt just like a dream. I'd had dreams like that before, him coming for me here."

Snape knows too much about Harry's dreams to doubt this, but he doesn't allow himself to acknowledge it aloud. "So you did see him coming—however briefly—before he seized you."

"Yeah," says Harry. "Just for a couple of seconds. He can move pretty fast, for a big guy."

"So you stood there," says Snape, "for several seconds, as he advanced towards you with clearly murderous intent—what did you do to defend yourself?"

Harry looks up at him with wary eyes. "Sir?"

"Did you draw your wand? Shout for help? Attempt to run for the infirmary? Attack him physically?"

The boy blushes furiously. "There wasn't time for any of that!"

"Potter, how long do you think it takes to cast a Stunning spell? To raise your voice and alert persons nearby of your predicament?"

Snape imagines that Harry could hardly look more stricken if he had slapped him across the face. "You think it's my fault?" he says, in a strangely high pitched voice. "That I didn't move fast enough, so I deserved what I got?"

"I did not say that," says Snape immediately. "I do not know whether you could have mounted a successful defense against Dursley, I was not there. But by your own admission," Snape lowers his voice intently, "you did not even try, Potter."

"Yeah, I screwed up, alright?" Harry raises his voice. He throws off the blankets with a furious motion and draws his knees defensively up against his chest. "You want me to apologize for risking my neck again? Fine! I'm sorry!"

"What I want, Potter," Snape says, leaping to his feet, only just managing to control the volume of his voice, "is to know what sort of twisted emotional alchemy has so warped your brain that you dare not lift your hand against those who would harm you!"

Harry stares at him, mouth gaping. Then, with a visible effort, he shuts it and shakes his head.

"That—that's just completely unfair!" he says. "I've been in a fight for my life practically every year since I came to this school, and I always came out of it! I usually had help, I know that, but that doesn't mean I didn't try my hardest—you're making it sound like I just lie back and let people stomp on me, and that's just not true—"

"That is precisely my point!" says Snape, placing both hands on the mattress and leaning in over the bed. "You have slain a basilisk. You dueled the Dark Lord and bested him. And yet, you could not bring yourself to raise your wand to this Muggle who made your childhood a feast for locusts!" Harry is inching away from him towards the edge of the bed, but Snape only leans closer. "And I. want you. to tell me. why."

Snape knows—had known, before this conversation ever began—that the boy does not possess the ability to articulate his own hopeless sense of unworthiness. Snape had seen it in his mind—had seen, for the first time, Harry, as Harry sees himself. His skin has not yet ceased to crawl from the sensation.

He has not provoked the boy in this manner because he has any hope of forcing him to elocute that formless dread in his heart. He only wants Harry to see the discrepancy—force him to confront the cognitive disconnect between his behavior and his conscious thoughts. He does not have much hope of succeeding, but he must try—cannot do otherwise.

"I don't know why," Harry says at last, in a whisper near the edge of tears. "I don't know, all right?"

Snape closes his eyes. It is a kind of victory, he supposes. At least he has acknowledged it.

"Nobody on this earth," he says, still not looking at the boy, "wants to destroy you as utterly as Vernon Dursley does. Not even the Dark Lord—if he should kill you, he will never allow your name to be forgotten. He will celebrate your life, exaggerate your accomplishments, honor you above his most trusted servants, in the hopes that one day you will be remembered as a great and terrible foe whom he defeated, not as a child unworthy of his mad obsession, a child who foiled him again and again. If his Death Eaters should kill you, they too will make a tale of it to rival Beowulf and Grendel. But Vernon Dursley does not even see you. He would make you nothing if he could. And the only reason—" Snape opens his eyes, to find Harry watching him with a strangely blank expression, "the only reason I did not kill him is because nothing so simple, so final as his death could satisfy me after all he has done to you."

They stare at each other for a long moment, and though Snape knows better than anyone the boy is no Occlumens, he finds his eyes strangely shuttered and unreadable.

"I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that," Harry says at last.

Snape straightens and looks down on him with an arched eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that?"

Harry flushes slightly, his nostrils flaring. "Because that's the sort of thing you say to someone you care about," he says flatly. "And I know better than to think you could ever care about me."

Snape feels the breath leaving his body. "Is that a fact," he says tonelessly, willing the white light to fade from his vision.

Harry's defiance wilts suddenly, as though he has only just realized what he had said—though whether it is the rudeness he is acknowledging, or something else, Snape cannot tell. "It just confuses me, that's all," he mutters. "I could do with a bit less confusion."

And then he reaches for the book on the top of the stack on the night stand, opens it to an apparently random point right in the middle, and stares down at it without reading.

Snape stands there, gazing at the top of Harry's bent head for a long moment. When he has caught his breath again, he turns and stalks from the room, slamming the door behind him.

He pauses in the corridor afterwards, his hand splayed against the wooden surface, the echoing reverberations pounding in his head. He sucks a long draught of air deep into his lungs—and if, on the exhale, there is a faint hitch, it is nothing like a sob. He has earned this, after all—bought and paid for it with five years of neglect and cruelty, and a host of sins in the years before that. He has no right to complain now if the meal he has prepared is a bitter one.


	9. please respond

Harry jumps as Snape leaves, slamming the door behind him. His fingers tighten on the book he is holding—he doesn't even know which one he had grabbed—and as he replays the last few minutes of their conversation in his mind, his stomach knots with something like guilt.

He doesn't know what had made him say those things to Snape, who has done more for him in the last twenty four hours than any other adult has in the course of his whole life—well, except for his parents, he supposes, but hearing about something isn't quite the same as seeing and living through it. He hadn't even meant his comment the way he now realizes Snape had taken it. He had never intended to imply that Snape was incapable of caring at all. Snape is a good person, even if he is a bit of a bastard—Harry can admit this now without choking. But saving his life, and mending his in juries, and protecting him from Uncle Vernon...well, Harry figures that Snape sees doing all that sort of stuff as his duty, both as a teacher and a member of the Order. It's not likely to be personal, is it? Granted, holding him while he cried (something Harry can't even think about without wanting to curl up under the counterpane and die) had felt pretty personal. But he knows better than to think it means anything. After all, he had been on the verge of hyperventilating, and Snape probably hadn't wanted him to pass out. Besides, patting someone on the back when he's upset is just the sort of thing good people do. It doesn't mean he ought to take it as an invitation to get attached.

Funny, really—a week ago, the mere thought of having to tell himself not to get attached to Snape would have made him laugh out loud for an hour. Now, though, there are moments when he finds that thinking about Snape makes him feel a little like how thinking of Sirius had made him feel, right after the end of his third year—safe and happy in the knowledge that someone is on his side, someone is looking out for him, even though their involvement in his life has to remain a secret from almost everybody. But Snape is not Sirius—he's not even Remus, or Mr Weasley, and Harry has to remember this if he wants to retain a shred of dignity the next time Snape takes a piece out of him in class. It gets harder, though, every time Snape says something like what he'd just said about Uncle Vernon—it would be too easy to believe he means more than he does.

Still, Harry is almost positive he had hurt Snape's feelings somehow—which is weird, considering that a week ago he would have said Snape didn't have any feelings to hurt—and he wishes now he'd just kept his mouth shut.

Harry shifts miserably against the pillows and looks back down at the book again. He finds he cannot concentrate—he reads a paragraph three times without taking in a single word. At last he sets the Charms text aside and reaches into his pocket for the vial of potion Madam Pomfrey had given him. This one, at least, isn't sealed with wax like the one he had broken so carelessly. He pulls the stopper from the mouth, tips half of it down his throat, and leans back into the pillows.

He is asleep before he even has a chance to feel the pain begin to recede from his aching muscles.

When Harry wakes up again, he finds he cannot tell how much time has passed. There are no windows in the dungeons, obviously, and the fire is burning just as brightly as it had been when he had first closed his eyes. He makes a quick mental inventory of the various body parts which had registered their complaints earlier that morning, to find that the dull aches have all faded into mild twinges.

Harry throws back the covers, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and grabs a handful of clothing to carry into the bathroom. He emerges a few minutes later, having showered and dressed, feeling more fully human than he has since Friday before Potions class. He sits on the edge of the bed and glances down the titles on the spines of the books on the bedside table. He doesn't feel like reading; he doesn't feel like doing much of anything, he realizes, because now that all the distractions of pain and sleep and hygiene are out of the way, his mind is turning back to his last conversation with Snape, and he finds that, unlike his physical discomforts, the slight pang of guilt he had felt before taking the potion has actually erupted into full-fledged misery.

He has to talk to Snape, he realizes, and apologize, before he gives himself an ulcer. Because, Harry realizes, however little Snape may think of him, and whether or not his kindness had been personal, Harry doesn't want to lose it. In fact, the thought of losing it makes him feel desperate and lonely, like he's four years old again and crying in his cupboard at night because Aunt Petunia won't hold him anymore. Not that a thousand Cruciatus Curses could pull that information out of him in Snape's hearing, but Harry can't deny it to himself. Not unless he wants to end up sniffing around the closed door of his professor's office at odd hours after everything has gone back to normal in a few days, wondering if things would be different if he had just belted up and done the decent thing. Anyway, Harry owes Snape an apology—he owes Snape for a lot of things, really, most of which he'll never be able to repay. This is the least of it, but at least it's something Harry can do. Probably. Assuming he doesn't freeze up in the middle, or start stuttering like an idiot.

Harry combs a hand through his hair and takes a few deep breaths, then crosses the bedroom and pushes the door open. He walks down the corridor toward the parlor, and finds the door standing wide, light coming from within.

Snape is sitting in the armchair on the lefthand side of the couch, gazing down at the floor. There is a glass in his hand, a tumbler filled with amber liquid, and Harry's stomach clenches on reflex at the sight of it. It's stupid, really—if he knows anything at this point, it's that Snape is not like Vernon Dursley, not in any of the ways that matter. But Uncle Vernon was always worse after a couple of drinks, and Harry can't help but wonder what Snape will be like in a similar state.

He steps just inside the parlor door and, feeling that it would be stupid of him to knock, clears his throat. Snape does not look up or turn his head, but Harry can tell he has registered his presence by the way his fingers clench spasmodically around the glass.

"Sir," Harry says, and then stops, because he has used up all his resolve just in getting here and now he find doesn't have any idea what to say, or how to begin, even.

Snape sets the glass down on the end table with a decided thunk. He sits quietly for a moment, then speaks.

"Miss Lovegood came to call on you earlier," he says, still not looking at him. "When I went to inquire whether you were available I found you asleep. She said she would come by another time."

"Right," says Harry, shifting he weight from foot to foot. He takes a look at the tall grandfather clock in the corner of the parlor. It is nearly nine o'clock in the evening. He had been asleep for almost twelve hours.

Snape stands abruptly, and Harry takes a instinctive step backwards, almost but not quite flinching. But Snape does not turn on him, does not dash the glass against a wall and call his name in tones that makes it indistinguishable from a swear word. Instead, he goes to the fireplace, where he throws a handful of floo powder into the flames, and speaks with the house elf who appears, ordering tea.

"You haven't eaten since dawn," Snape says to his questioning look, meeting his eyes at last.

A tray laden with various foodstuffs—soup, bread, fruit, cheese, and pastries—pops into existence on the table before the sofa a moment later. Harry wonders why the house elves hadn't send it into the kitchen—he would really rather not have to eat while Snape glares at him, and having all that food in front of him is only going to be a distraction when he tries to apologize. There's nothing for it, though—Snape is clearly expecting him to take a seat on the sofa across from him. He walks slowly into the room and perches on the edge of the cushions, conscious of Snape's eyes boring into the side of his head.

When Harry makes no move to begin serving himself, Snape bends forward and pours a cup of tea out for him. Harry receives it without meeting his eyes. A bowl of soup follows, and Harry accepts that as well, thankful that Snape lets him take the fruit and cheese for himself. Snape himself does not eat, merely continues to sip his—Harry sniffs surreptitiously—whiskey, without comment. It is a tense, silent meal on Harry's part, but he is hungry enough that it nearly doesn't matter. Odd, how he hadn't noticed being hungry until he'd actually seen the food—but then he's always trained himself to ignore hunger, otherwise he never would have been able to function well enough to finish chores for the Dursleys.

He makes short work of the soup and a few slices of bread, and puts sizeable dents in the platters of fruit and cheese, before setting his plate and cup aside and trying to sit back comfortably against the sofa cushions. The fire is warm and cheerful, and if it hadn't been for the weight of guilt against his chest, he could almost relax. He feels safe here, which, after the events of the morning, is not something he's inclined to take for granted. Every time he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, even just the ticking of a second hand on the face of the clock or the flicker of shadows cast by the fire, he has to fight the urge to whirl and look for Uncle Vernon. What might have been panic, however, is mere trepidation in Snape's presence, because Harry knows, believes, deep in his heart, that even if Vernon Dursley were to charge through the door of the parlor at this very moment, Snape would drop him before he had the chance to so much as shout at him. Harry doesn't know how to express his gratitude for this to Snape, especially considering that any thanks from him will probably sound like cheek after his performance this morning—but this only strengthens the resolve to apologize that had driven him here into the parlor in the first place.

But just as Harry is opening his mouth, Snape shifts in his chair in such a way as indicates he is on the verge of speaking. Harry grows still and waits to hear him. He has a suspicion that, whatever Snape is about to say, he won't enjoy hearing it—but he's too grateful for a reprieve from the uncomfortable silence, and still too uncertain what he wants to say himself, to try to forestall it.

"Your parents were murdered," Snape says, in a voice so quiet that Harry has to strain to distinguish each separate word, "on the 31st of October, 1981."

Harry finds the breath leaving his throat and the dinner turning to lead in his stomach before Snape has even reached the end of his sentence. The muscles of his shoulders and neck tense automatically. There is no derision in Snape's voice, but Harry simply cannot imagine Snape bringing his parents up for any reason other than to mock them.

"We—they were twenty-one when they died. Did anyone ever tell you that?" Snape fixes Harry with an inquiring gaze.

"No," says Harry, feeling off-balance. "I knew they were really young. No one's ever told me exactly how old they were, though."

Snape nods as though he has expected this, and looks away again towards the fire.

"Your parents died on October 31st," he says again. "On the morning of November 1st, I returned, for the first time in over five years, to the neighborhood where I had lived as a child. I Apparated to my parents' house—it was empty, by then, my mother had died when I was fourteen, and my father the year I left Hogwarts—and I walked the distance of less than three miles from there to the house where your maternal grandparents once lived."

Harry is still having a bit of trouble breathing, but for a different reason this time. Aside from one bitter comment Aunt Petunia had made five years ago about them being proud of his mother for being a witch, no one has ever told Harry anything about his grandparents. His mind is already churning with questions—not the least of which is why Snape is telling him all this now—but he bites his tongue, literally, and waits to see what else Snape has to say.

"The elder Evanses had already been dead some two or three years by this time, and Petunia had married and moved away while your mother was still in school. A new family had moved into the house, but it was quite early in the morning when I arrived, so I stood at the end of the lane for awhile and tried to remember the last time I had been inside. I couldn't. I knew it had been over the summer after my fourth year, but I had spent so much time in that house that I found all the different visits ran together in my memory."

Harry feels suddenly as though he has been struck on the back of the head by a wild Bludger. Snape's gaze is distant, as though fixed on things Harry cannot see.

"I had not slept that night. I had just come from Dumbledore—as soon as I heard the news of the attack at Godric's Hollow, I went to him, to ask why the protections securing...your parents had failed. I had been spying for him some months, by then. I had told him long before that the Dark Lord meant to kill you, and Dumbledore had promised me he would protect—your parents. We both tried to protect them—and we failed."

Snape swallows convulsively. Harry's eyes feel dry and scratchy, as though he has not blinked in several minutes.

"You—" Harry is hesitant to interrupt this speech, but Snape is staring down into his glass again. "You asked Dumbledore to protect—but you hated—"

"I hated your father," he says bluntly, then takes a long drink. "Your mother, however, was my best friend. My only true friend. We met when we were nine. We lived in a Muggle neighborhood, but I knew she was a witch the moment I laid eyes on her. It was I who first told her what her powers signified. The first time I called her a witch, she thought I was insulting her." He smiles. "She was...prodigiously gifted."

On fire to hear more, Harry wants to shake Snape, to make him keep talking—but he has the impression that Snape can't bring himself to get through more than a few sentences at a time without having to stop and collect himself.

"No one ever told me who my mother's friends were," Harry says to prompt him, a little shakily."Everyone talks about my dad, but no one—she was kind, and pretty, and good at Charms, that's all anyone ever told me." Harry swallows. "And I have her eyes. That's all I know."

Snape nods, then taps his glass with his wand. It refills. "She was extremely popular, but in a different way from your father. He thrived on the adulation of others. Lily was...well loved, and highly sought after, but though she was kind to her admirers, she was not close to many of them. She felt the stigma of being Muggleborn, though she was so talented that only the jealous dared reproach her with it. A bit like your Miss Granger, though your mother did not crave recognition for her gifts. Despite being sorted into separate Houses we were inseparable until we were fifteen. She trusted and confided in me because I had known her before, in the Muggle world. And she...was the only wholly good thing in my life."

For the first time, Harry is glad that Snape is not looking at him. There is such a haunted note to the man's voice that Harry is almost afraid to think what his eyes would look like.

Harry's mind is racing furiously to process what Snape is telling him, and a startling suspicion pierces him. "Until you were fifteen," he says, cautiously, because he knows he is treading on dangerous ground. "Until your...your fifth year."

Snape lifts his head then, and Harry, gobsmacked, sees that his eyes are very bright, as though on the verge of overflowing with tears.

"That—that day by the lake," Harry whispers. "You called her a—"

"Don't say the word," Snape says harshly, and Harry recoils physically. "Yes. I called her that. Your father had humiliated me, and I was...I had, by that time, already begun to succumb to evil influences. You must understand," and Snape looks up, and Harry is shocked to see that his eyes are almost pleading, "the Dark Lord's doctrines of blood purity never meant much to me. My father was a Muggle, and I hated him, surely enough, but I had lived enough in the Muggle world—I listened to the Rolling Stones, I smoked cigarettes, I knew the Muggle world and I was not afraid of it. But I wanted what a life in the Dark Lord's service could offer me—security, freedom, recognition and scope for my talents—and so I learned to speak in a way that would make me acceptable to him, despite my deficiencies. And I wanted to remind your father that I had allies—that I was not defenseless—"

Snape breaks off, looking away again. "Not until after it was all over did I even realize what I had said, to whom I had said it. I tried to apologize." Snape's fingers tighten on the glass again. "But by then, she had had enough of me. Of the company I was keeping."

"You never let Malfoy get away with calling Hermione a—calling her names," Harry says quietly. "I always wondered about that. Because wouldn't Malfoy expect you to be—to think like he does about—"

"Draco knows that his father expects him to maintain a pretense of civility in public," says Snape. "And he knows his father has charged me to—teach him discretion. Nobody whose palms were not crossed by Malfoy gold truly believes Lucius's claim to have been acting under the Imperius Curse fifteen years ago. He was not pleased when Draco's aversion to you became common knowledge."

"Yeah, well, he tried sucking up at first, but I'd already seen enough of him to keep my distance," Harry mutters.

"I don't doubt it," Snape says, and even though his head is bowed Harry is almost sure he can see a brief smile touch his lips.

Silence falls between them, until Harry speaks again, hesitant, because he knows he is about to ask a very personal question—but what has all this been, if not personal? And Snape had been the one to bring it up.

"How do you do it?" he says, not bothering to disguise his own bafflement. "You have to pretend all the time—you have to let Malfoy think you hate Muggles, but at the same time you have to pretend to be pretending to be on the side you're really on—" Harry is fairly certain that doesn't make any sense, but Snape is smart enough to figure out what he means—"how do you keep it all straight?"

Snape looks up then, and Harry finds that he is smiling—not even smirking, it's too gentle for that.

"I wouldn't expect you to be able to understand," he says. "You are young, and more to the point you are—to use Dumbledore's excessively hagiographical terminology—pure of heart. You have never learned to be other than you are, not even when pretense and dissembling would have spared you suffering. But I—my soul is not so intact as yours. I am both the angry young man who became a Death Eater at seventeen, and the man of thirty-six who has paid the price of his own folly. I have learned to be all the things that I am. I do not aspire to unity."

Harry can't help wondering, as all these revelations come tumbling out of Snape's mouth, just how much of the whiskey he had drunk before Harry ever came into the room. Still, it occurs to him that now may be the time to say what he had come here to say in the first place—Snape seems relaxed enough that maybe he will listen. In any case, he has to try eventually, and as Snape has stopped talking for the moment, it seems as good a chance as any.

"I wanted to apologize," he tells Snape, noting nervously how Snape's head jerks up at the word. "For what I said to you this morning. I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

Snape frowns at him—not angrily, Harry thinks, but as though Harry has confused him. "What did you mean?"

"When I said—" Harry flushes, and looks away from Snape, into the fire. "When I said you didn't care about me, I only meant that—I know I'm annoying. I know I do stupid stuff, that I risk my neck and put people in danger, and I'm rude and disrespectful sometimes. And I remind you of my dad, and you—I don't really blame you for hating him, because he was a right berk to you in school."

Harry risks a look back at Snape, to find his frown has become a scowl. Swallowing nervously, Harry summons all the nerve he can muster to make himself keep going.

"What I mean is, I don't blame you for not liking me. And you don't have to pretend you care about me when you don't, because I know that not liking me doesn't make you a bad person. You still protect me and look out for me, and that makes you an even better person, really, because it's easy to do good things for people you like. And I know you can care for—for people who deserve it." Harry flushes and looks away again. Snape's total silence is almost more unnerving than an explosion would be. "That's all I meant," he finishes weakly, with a shrug.

Snape's voice, when next he speaks, is so quiet that Harry can barely hear him.

"You are right," he says. "I did misunderstand you."

Harry feels as though he could melt right through the sofa onto the floor, such is his relief.

"You think," he continues, and Harry finds himself tensing again, "you do not—deserve my regard?"

Harry finds the question a little bewildering. He thinks for a moment and chooses his words carefully.

"I just...I just figure you think I don't," he says, then adds quickly, "but I don't blame you. I understand why."

Snape nods slowly—and then, leaning forward, he puts the glass, still half full of whiskey, on the coffee table, out of his reach, and leans back in the chair again. "You," he says, "understand a great deal less than you think."

Harry doesn't know what to make of this, so he sits quietly. The silence, however, is less uncomfortable than it was before.

"Thanks, by the way," he says, suddenly realizing he had forgotten to say it earlier. "For pulling Uncle Vernon off me. And—" Harry blushes furiously. "For what you did. Afterwards." Even Harry knows he is being annoyingly vague, but he's not about to say, Thanks for holding me while I cried like a four year old, because then he'd have to throw himself off the Astronomy tower.

When Snape does not reply to this, Harry ventures a look at him. Snape is staring off at a fixed point in the distance, with a strangely blank expression on his face. But when Harry drops his gaze again, he finds that the hand resting on the arm of Snape's chair is trembling.

They sit listening to the fire crackle in the grate for a minute, Harry watching the smoke rise and disappear up through the chimney. Harry thinks back over everything Snape has told him, and finds his imagination strangely captivated by the image of a teenage Snape, wearing Muggle clothes, maybe driving a car and listening to the Rolling Stones on the radio. The contrast with the dour picture of the man sitting beside him now, dressed in high necked, long sleeved robes that would probably get him mistaken for a priest in the Muggle world, is so bizarre that Harry has to stifle a giggle.

"Professor," he says suddenly, "you don't still smoke, do you?"

Snape jerks and stares at him as though Harry has just sprouted antlers from his head.

"Because I know you haven't lived in the Muggle world for a long time, but these days everyone knows it's really bad for you," Harry continues earnestly.

Snape blinks at him a few times, then speaks in a gruff voice. "Go to bed, Potter."

He isn't the least bit sleepy—he had just slept for nearly twelve hours, after all—but he knows better than to argue. He stands up, feeling stiff, and turns for the door.

As he reaches the bedroom, however, he is almost certain he can hear a roar of laughter coming down the corridor from the parlor. Harry blinks, then shakes his head and shuts the door behind him.

Snape opens his eyes the next morning and immediately shuts them again, fumbling for his wand. The Killing Curse is not effective when used by the caster against himself—nobody, however self-loathing they may think they are, is capable of summoning the necessary conviction—but he knows a number of lesser curses that produce equally fatal results.

At the last moment, however, he converts a Sectumsempra to his own throat into a Summoning charm that brings a bottle of hangover remedy flying into his outstretched hand. He drops it, of course, but fortunately it falls on the carpet and does not break. Without opening his eyes, he Summons it again and unseals it, pouring the contents down his throat. A few minutes later, most of the dancing hippogriffs and at least one of the trolls hammering against the inside of his skull go quietly back to their usual business and leave him in peace. Snape opens his eyes blearily and discovers he is still in the armchair by the fire, which continues to blaze cheerfully in the grate, as though no time at all has passed.

According to the clock, however—a Muggle one, with proper numbers, the only item he had brought to Hogwarts from his parents' home at Spinner's End—it is six thirty in the morning. Monday morning, which means that he is running over an hour behind schedule. He groans quietly and tries to summon the will to get to his feet, already anticipating the stiffness that is an inevitable result of spending a night in an armchair—and then remembers that Dumbledore is taking his classes today, to leave him time for looking after Harry.

Harry...

Much to his own mortification, he finds that he clearly recalls the entirety of last night's conversation. He wonders if this is a result of the clarifying and stimulant properties of the hangover remedy, and considers that a blinding headache and nausea would be a small price to pay to forget his own folly. Too late for that now, however. He is awake, and miserably clear-headed, and now there is a day full of damaged teenager to face.

He wonders idly if he could contrive to catch a case of dragon pox by making a surreptitious visit to the infirmary behind Dumbledore's back.

To top it all off, he is suddenly craving nicotine for the first time in over fifteen years. There are potions he could take for this, but he doubts that developing a dependancy on illicit potions will remedy the situation much farther. It's not as though Dumbledore wouldn't notice. Damn the man. Damn Muggles and their blasted weeds. Damn whiskey, and the Dark Lord, and heartbreakingly vulnerable children who had the indecency to be born with their mother's eyes...

Snape shuts his eyes again and slumps back into the chair. To add insult to injury, he hadn't even managed to come around to his intended point after all of last night's maudlin reminiscing. Fifteen years ago, when he had sworn to Dumbledore to protect Lily's son, he had sworn another oath, privately, never to speak her name to the boy. In protecting him, Snape had considered himself to be doing all he could to repair the consequences of his treachery—a task, he had assumed, that would be made all the harder if he saw silent accusation in the boy's eyes every time he looked at him.

But since yesterday morning—specifically, since gaining a glimpse of Harry's bleak mental landscape—Snape has come to recognize that something more than this is needed. The boy must learn to place some measure of trust in his guardians, or he is bound to get himself killed sooner or later. At the moment, he is convinced that no one, save perhaps his bratty little Gryffindor friends, and maybe Luna, values him for anything more than his importance to the struggle against the Dark Lord, unless it is for his resemblance to his parents—Black had been responsible for that last particularly damnable aspect of his insecurity, Snape suspects, him and his bloody seventeen year old's brain trapped in a man's body.

And yet, some part of Snape finds the boy's rebellion gratifying. Considering the fact that he had been raised by jackals, it would have been natural for Harry to throw himself wholeheartedly into the roles that those around him demand he play, in the hope of earning approval and affection. Yet his determination to pit himself against the Dark Lord arises from no such source; it is rooted, rather, in his fierce devotion to his friends and to the memory of his parents. And while there is, deep inside him, a suspicion that he does not deserve to have his needs met unless he has worked for the privilege, his very mistrust of the adults around him argues an awareness that this is not truly the proper order of things. He is battered, but not broken, and this realization fills Snape with a sensation suspiciously like relief.

Were he vindictive, his disappointment would have long ago have converted into hostility, as Snape's had at the same age. But Harry blossoms under kindness, and this has saved him. He had made friends easily, upon coming to Hogwarts, and Snape suspects that the boy is even beginning to warm towards him. His convoluted speech of last night would seem to suggest it, considering the pains he had taken to assure Snape that he bore him no grudge for disliking him. Snape had been impressed, despite himself, at the precocious way Harry had distinguished between action and feelings—perhaps that is why Harry trusts kindness, even if he does not rely on it, because he perceives that kindness is a choice, while feelings cannot be forced. And though Snape had been touched by the boy's absolution, he had just as quickly realized that he wants Harry to believe he will continue to choose to be kind to him.

Which was why Snape had stopped himself in the middle of last night's conversation before coming to his intended point.

His original plan had been to tell Harry of the vow he had sworn to Dumbledore on the night his parents had been murdered. He had thought that this information would appear to the boy in the light of a tangible fact, verifiable evidence that would, if not outweigh the five years of grief he has given him in his Potions classes, at least begin to balance the scales somewhat. Once Harry had launched into his awkward little apology, however, Snape had realized that a confession of that sort was likely to do more harm than good. He has no desire to give Harry the impression that he is, to Snape, his mother's stand-in, as for Black he had been his father's. Not only is it patently untrue, he has no desire whatsoever to be confused with Sirius Black in any way. And so he had silenced himself, no doubt leaving the boy wondering precisely how much whiskey he had drunk, to launch into such a rambling account of himself without reason or provocation.

As to how much whiskey he had drunk...Snape glances down at his feet and finds the bottle almost three-quarters empty. Well, that had been intentional, in part; he becomes strangely chatty when he's had a few drinks too many, which is one reason he has no social life to speak of—spies with half a bottle of Ogden's Finest in them tended to become dead spies, in fairly short order. He'd thought it would help him be forthcoming with the boy. And perhaps it had. He had intended a fairly short recital, and it had turned into over an hour's worth of conversation.

He hopes Harry, at least, had gotten something out of it.

Snape stands, carefully, with respect to his aging bones, and walks from the parlor towards the bedroom, where he knocks on the door and waits until he hears Harry say, "Come in."

Harry is sitting, cross legged, fully dressed except for his shoes, on top of the counterpane, a textbook open in his lap. Incredibly, he smiles at him.

"Morning, sir," he says.

"I am under obligation to appear in the Great Hall for breakfast this morning," Snape announces without preamble. "The Headmaster and I have an altercation to stage—the final act in Friday's classroom drama."

Harry blinks at him. "Oh. Right. He's going to—erm—yell at you for what happened?"

Snape rolls his eyes. "The Headmaster does not 'yell', Potter. Wizards of his caliber rarely need to. He will, however, leave no doubt in the minds of any observers that I am in disgrace. That is the material point."

Harry frowns. "That doesn't sound like much fun."

Snape ignores this. "In any case, I will return within the hour. The Headmaster is covering my classes for the time being, so that I may spend the day here." He fixes the boy with his gaze. "I trust that this time, I can rely on you to remain put in my absence?" Snape does not wish to tell him that Vernon Dursley is still on the castle grounds—he will, if he must, but he hopes the boy will simply do as he's bloody told for once, out of respect rather than fear.

To his credit, Harry does not blush. He closes his book instead. "Actually, Professor, I think I'm ready to go back to class."

"You are nothing of the kind," Snape tells him immediately. "You are in pain, under the influence of narcotic potions, and your ribs have yet to fully heal from your uncle's first attack on you, to say nothing of the further damage you incurred Friday afternoon and yesterday morning. You will remain where you are. I will order your breakfast from the kitchens and direct the house elves to serve it here."

"If I can't go to class," says Harry hastily, before Snape can step out of the room and shut the door behind him, "then can't I at least go to the Great Hall for breakfast? I promise I'll go straight there and come straight back, no detours."

Snape knows that he ought to refuse outright, but the hopeful look Harry is giving him causes him to hesitate, and the boy sees it. "I haven't seen Ron or Hermione since Friday, and I know they must be worried about me," he says earnestly. "Please, sir. I'll walk slowly. Anyway, I'm sure a little bit of exercise will do me good. Plus, won't the, erm...drama with Professor Dumbledore be more effective if I'm nearby? You can glare at me. It'll add—verisimilitude."

Snape blinks at him. "Verisimilitude?"

"I might have spent some time looking through a dictionary when I wrote that first letter," Harry says, grinning sheepishly.

Snape fights the twitching of his own lips. "Very well. You will walk with me until it becomes necessary for us to part ways. You will likewise wait after the meal at a prearranged point so that I may walk you back. Understood?"

"Right, Professor." Harry grins more widely still. "Thanks. Um, just let me get my shoes..."

Snape stands in the doorway as the boy scrambles around on the floor for a pair of ratty trainers that look several sizes too large for his feet.

"Potter," he says, "have you managed to squander the entirety of your inheritance on Chocolate Frogs and Doctor Filibuster's Wet-Start Fireworks?"

Harry looks up from bending over the side of the bed. "What do you mean, sir?"

Snape nods to the shoes in his hands. "Only that you appear to have been selling your possessions and replacing them with items procured, I can only suppose, from some unsuspecting Muggle's rubbish bin."

Rather to his surprise, Harry flushes at this. "They were my cousin's," he mutters. "Most of my Muggle clothes are his hand-me-downs. Ron's given me some stuff, but he's so much taller than me—his shoes would be worse than Dudley's." At Snape's look—he suspects he has not disguised his incredulity very well—Harry's tone sharpens. "Well, it's not as though I could go into Muggle London to buy my own things, is it? Everyone from Hermione to Mrs Weasley would line up to kill me."

"Assuming you weren't dead already," Snape says, nodding. He can hardly wrap his mind around the idea of James Potter's heir consigned to wearing cast offs. He can just picture the look on the elder Potter's face if he knew—and yet he finds that the image brings him no satisfaction. Possibly because it so closely mirrors the consternation he must fight to keep from displaying himself. "Your forbearance is...admirable."

The look Harry gives him is slightly suspicious, as though he suspects Snape will snatch the compliment back from him in a moment.

"However," he says, and Harry seems to brace himself, "it would be better if you did not add to your injuries by tripping over them in the corridors. Put them on."

Looking slightly confounded, Harry does as he is told. "Tell me when to stop," Snape says, pointing his wand at the trainers and beginning to shrink them. He would just as soon have Vanished them into the ether and shrunk a pair of his own shoes to fit the boy's feet, but he has no wish to wound Harry's pride—all too easily done, as Snape has reason to remember, when everything one owns is shabby.

"Brilliant, Professor," Harry says when Snape has finished, sticking his feet out to admire the shoes as though Snape had Transfigured them into boots of the finest polished dragonhide. "Thanks!"

Snape nods curtly, then jerks his head toward the open door. Harry hops off the side of the bed and passes through it, but not before giving Snape a blinding smile.

Snape waits until the boy is several paces ahead of him before he allows himself to return it.


	10. return to sender

"...and I think we're covering Scintillating Charms in Flitwitck's class, but aside from that, Harry, it shouldn't be too much work to make up. I'll copy all my notes over for you and send them down tonight, if I can." Hermione pauses at the end of this exhausting monologue on classes Harry hasn't even missed yet to look critically at him. "Do you know when Professor Snape will let you go come back to class?"

Harry pushes his empty breakfast plate away and shakes his head."No idea," he tells her. "Whenever he thinks I'm well enough, I guess. I told him this morning I feel all right, but he's been a little bit weird ever since I—you know, woke up."

"Weird how?" says Ron, frowning around a mouthful of toast.

Harry wrinkles his nose. "Weird like...I dunno. Twitchy. Like I'm about to turn a corner and get killed by Voldemort at any moment."

Hermione arches an eyebrow at him. "Oh?" she says sweetly. "You mean 'protective'?"

Harry flushes, and Ron shudders. "I like Harry's word better," he says, pushing his plate back too, as though his appetite has suddenly vanished.

Breakfast is nearly over by now, and the Great Hall is beginning to empty of students. Ron and Hermione are lingering, however, to give them all a chance to talk and catch up. Harry has already told them all about the events of Sunday morning, and they had reacted much as he expected—Hermione with horrified gasps, and Ron by scowling fiercely and stabbing his sausages with more force than strictly necessary. Now Hermione is looking at him shrewdly, and Harry suspects she has something more to say on the subject.

"Well, I think Snape's got every reason to be nervous," she says flatly. "I can't believe your uncle is still in the castle, Harry."

"Maybe we should walk you back to the dungeons," Ron says, looking grim. "McGonagall won't mind us being late, if we tell her why."

"No need," Harry tells him, though he is touched by their concern. "I'm meeting Snape as soon as—as it's all over, and we're going down together."

Harry had also told them about the plan behind the upcoming scene between Snape and Dumbledore, only to find out Dumbledore had already explained it to them after the accident in Potions on Friday. Ron had reacted to the prospect of seeing Snape publically set down with more enthusiasm than Hermione had seemed to think strictly decent.

"You know now he was trying to help Harry!" she had said to him reprovingly, and Ron had snorted.

"Look, Snape could start handing out Chocolate Frogs in class tomorrow and carry on till we all finish our NEWTs," he had told her, stabbing a fork covered in egg yolk in her direction. "I'd still want to see him suffer for what he's done to Harry since first year. No amount of suddenly not being horrible can make up for that."

Hermione had sighed and dropped the subject after that, for which Harry had been secretly grateful. He doesn't want to say so out loud, but he hasn't yet made up his mind whether he agrees more with her or with Ron on the subject of Snape deserving public humiliation. On the one hand, he knows a lot better than Hermione just how much Snape has helped him over the last week or so. But on the other hand, he could never explain to Ron that knowing Snape can be kind when he chooses almost makes the memories of the last five years in his class worse, in a way. So far, Harry has almost managed to avoid admitting to himself that part of him is looking forward to this morning's display, despite the fact that he knows it won't be real. It is a denial he would prefer to cling to a little longer yet.

"Either of you guys seen Luna this morning?" Harry asks, determinedly changing the subject. He has been watching the Ravenclaw table for her ever since arriving at the Great Hall, but there has been no sign of her so far.

Ron and Hermione both shake their heads. "Haven't seen her at all this weekend, actually," Hermione says. "But then she disappears whenever she hasn't got class—she wanders off by herself and doesn't tell anyone where she's going."

"Oh," says Harry, feeling a bit dismayed he'd never known this about Luna before. "Well, if you see her around while I'm still—erm—recovering, could you...keep an eye out for her?"

Ron frowns at him. "What d'you mean? Something wrong with her?"

"No, she just—" Harry shrugs. "The other morning someone ran right over her in the hall. No one even helped her up, they were too busy laughing." He scowls at the memory. "I just think she gets picked on a lot, and it might not happen as much if she had—friends around."

"People do make fun of her," Hermione nods, "but Luna's—well, you know what she's like. It doesn't seem to bother her very much. It's horrible, of course," she says hastily, at Harry's look, "but I don't think she's unhappy."

"Doesn't matter," Harry says determinedly, finishing off his tea. "It's not an excuse for people to treat her badly."

Hermione opens her mouth to reply to this, but Harry doesn't hear what she's saying—he has just caught sight of Snape, leaving the staff table and sweeping down the Hall between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables toward the doors. This is unusual for him—ordinarily the teachers leave by the door at the back—but Harry knows why he's doing it.

"I have to go," he says, and gives a tiny nod in Snape's direction.

Ron glances over his shoulder at Snape, and Hermione says, "but isn't he supposed to—"

"That's probably where he's going," Harry says. "Come on, I need to be there."

"Why?" says Ron, but Harry does not answer him.

Harry waits for Ron and Hermione to gather their things, then heads out of the Hall with them. They pause just outside the doors, and Harry looks up and down the corridor before he sees Snape striding down the hall in the direction of the dungeon staircase.

For a moment, Harry wonders if he's misunderstood, if he should be making his way to the statue of Barnabas the Barmy to meet Snape so they can walk back to his rooms together. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he hears Dumbledore's voice calling loudly to the end of the corridor where Snape is preparing to round a corner and disappear from sight.

"Professor Snape," he says, and though, as Snape had predicted, the words are not precisely a shout, there is no mistaking the command in them, or the hint of coldness in the Headmaster's customarily serene tones.

Harry had wondered if it was going to look odd, him and Ron and Hermione standing so nearby while Snape and Dumbledore talk, but now he sees he need not have worried—everyone in the crowded corridor, including a group of sixth and seventh year Slytherins, is watching with frank interest, though some of the teachers are clearly trying to pretend they have a good excuse for standing around outside their classrooms, by making a show of attempting to chivvy students inside them. "But I've got Care of Magical Creatures this period," he hears Colin Creevey trying to tell a distracted Professor Vector, who appears not to hear him.

Harry watches as Snape stops and turns slowly, as though reluctant to do so but not daring to pretend he hasn't heard his name called. He meets Dumbledore's eyes over the heads of the people between them, then begins to walk forward to where the Headmaster stands waiting for him. Harry had not realized it was possible to demonstrate so much distaste and contempt for a person just by walking a certain way, but then, this is hardly the first surprising thing he's learned about Snape lately.

He doesn't expect Snape to pay any attention to him in front of other people, so he is surprised when Snape glances at him as he passes by. Harry is momentarily stunned by the look of utmost loathing that crosses Snape's features—but just before they break eye contact, Snape glances downward for the briefest instant, and Harry, confused, peers down at his feet. His shoes—the ends of which just touch his toes for the first time in his life—appear from beneath the hem of his trousers, and Harry realizes in a flash what Snape is saying to him. It's just an act, he tells himself firmly, bracing for whatever is about to come.

Harry looks up again to find Ron and Hermione watching him. He gives them a brief nod, then glances again to where Snape has come face to face with Dumbledore, as dour a look upon Snape's face as Harry has ever seen. The Headmaster himself appears quite calm, if stern, and this expression does not falter as Snape reaches him and they begin to speak in voices too low to hear.

They stand there together for no more than two minutes total, but at the end of it Harry figures that nobody watching can have failed to grasp either Dumbledore's displeasure or Snape's apparent fury, especially after Snape spins on his heel and begins to stalk away, and Dumbledore calls after him.

"Is a schoolboy grudge worth your position, Severus?" he says mildly, and though, again, he is not shouting, everyone in the corridor hears him quite plainly.

Snape pauses, mid-stride, then turns to look back at Dumbledore over his shoulder. His mouth twitches, as though he is about to say something but thinks immediately better of it. He gives a curt, negative jerk of the head, then turns back and finds Harry again with his eyes. This time, his face is absolutely impassive, save for a flare of the nostrils. He looks away again a second later, and sweeps back along the corridor with a jerk of the elbows that sends his robes flaring out behind him.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione watch him go silently, until Ron says in a low voice, "Well that was a little disappointing."

Hermione immediately rolls her eyes at him. "Well, honestly, what were you expecting? It had to look real, and it's not as though Dumbledore would ever make a scene."

"Yeah," says Ron, following Hermione as she leads the way towards the Transfiguration classroom, "still, a bloke can dream. Uh, Harry, guess we'll see you later?"

Harry has hung back from them, and Hermione looks back over her shoulders. He waves them on. "I'm going to see if Snape will let me have dinner in Hall again," he tells them. "I'd ask for lunch, but that might be pushing my luck."

"Bye, Harry," Hermione says, and then they are gone.

Harry waits until he is sure no one is watching, then darts around the nearest corner to take an out of the way route to the statue where Snape is waiting for him. He spots Snape from a distance, looking tense and irritable, and Harry finds his footsteps slowing as he approaches.

"Took your time, didn't you, Potter?" Snape says, more than a hint of a sneer about his expression. "I suppose you and your little friends needed a moment to congratulate each other on the accomplishment of that farce."

Stung by this unexpected hostility, and feeling slightly guilty for the fact that it is almost true, Harry says the first thing that comes to mind. "Yeah, that's right, Professor," he retorts. "Later, we're planning to sneak up behind you and hoist you in the air by your ankle. 'Cause I'm just like my dad, remember?"

Snape's face immediately begins to darken, but Harry finds he doesn't care. He stalks past Snape towards his chamber without pausing to let him take the lead. After a moment of walking by himself he hears the whisper of trailing robes behind him. Of course Snape has caught up to him, he thinks. The man has a stride a meter wide.

"If you think, Potter," he says, coming to walk beside him, "that I will tolerate insolence from you because you are staying in my quarters—"

"What I thought, sir," says Harry, still too angry to worry how many detentions he's about to earn, "was that you, of all people, would know by now why I would never do that. I don't laugh at people behind their backs, especially when they're doing something to help me." However much I might want to, he adds silently to himself.

Harry quickens his pace, fighting not to cringe in anticipation of the explosion that must be coming. But by the time they have reached the long spiral staircase leading down into the dungeon corridor where Snape's quarters are located, Snape still has not replied. Harry sneaks a glance up at him, and finds Snape's face expressionless, saving for a tightness around the mouth. Whatever Snape is thinking, he has apparently decided not to express it, and Harry looks away, deciding that it is best not to question his good fortune.

When they reach the portrait of Merlin and Nimue, Snape releases the wards and the door swings open. Snape waits for Harry to precede him through it, and once the door has shut behind them, turns to look down at him.

Harry forces himself to meet Snape's eyes and not flinch.

"I do know better, Potter," he says, raises a hand to run it back over his hair. Harry notices a strange brownish stain on the cuff of the white shirt he wears under his robes. "Disregard my comments. I am not at my best this morning."

I'll say, Harry thinks. Now that he is looking more closely, he can see, as he had not from a distance outside the Great Hall, or in the dim light of the bedroom earlier, that Snape's face is pale and drawn. "Haven't you got a potion you can take, Professor?" he says cautiously.

Snape glares at him. "Back to bed with you," he says. "You're due for another dose of the pain relief draught. Sleep through it, if you can."

Harry fights not to roll his eyes as he does what he's told and heads back towards the bedroom. "When this is over," he says, without looking back at Snape, "I may never sleep again."

He distinctly hears a snort of amusement from behind him as he is shutting the bedroom door.

Rather to his own surprise, he does sleep; but then, he has been up since nine o'clock yesterday evening. This habit he's gotten into of sleeping during the day is going to be a problem when he finally gets back to class, Harry thinks, waking groggily after (he presumes) several hours have passed. He wonders if he could talk Snape into putting a clock in the room, as he always seems to wake up disoriented and with no idea how much time has passed.

Harry ducks into the bathroom to change his clothes and wash his face, and when he emerges again, he finds Snape seated in the chair beside the bed.

"Finished your homework, Potter?" Snape says without preamble, as Harry shuts the bathroom door behind him.

"Yes, sir," he says, standing and looking at him uncertainly. At the disbelieving arch of Snape's eyebrows, he bristles. "Well, I had a lot of time to work, and there wasn't much of it. Though I reckon that'll change once Hermione sends down today's notes," he adds glumly.

"Ah." Snape looks faintly amused, though whether because Harry is clearly not looking forward to this, or because he knows how detailed Hermione's notes are likely to be, he cannot tell. "In that case, you have a new assignment. Arrange yourself wherever you are most comfortable, and take out quill and parchment."

Watching Snape warily from the corner of his eye, Harry obeys, sitting cross-legged on the bed on top of the covers, and taking the necessary items from his school bag. He rests the parchment on the back of his Transfigurations textbook; Snape sighs wearily, and with a twirl of his wand one of the pillows beside him becomes a kind of carved wooden bed tray with a padded bottom and depressions to hold a bottle of ink and a spare quill. Harry exchanges his textbook for the tray wordlessly, and with another flick of his wand, Snape sends a square of folded paper floating towards him. Automatically, Harry reaches out to catch it. Almost before he has even touched it, he realizes that he knows what it is.

He sits there, staring at it, not unfolding it. No one in the Wizarding world uses paper as white as this.

"This is the letter my uncle wrote me," he says flatly. "What are you doing with it?"

"Why, Mr Potter," Snape says smoothly. "You gave it to me. Have you forgotten already?"

"When did I do that?"

"You offered to exchange it if I would lower my voice Friday afternoon before you succumbed to the Draught."

"Oh." Harry's memory of that conversation is pretty dim, but come to it, he does remember saying something like that. He feels a blush spreading over his cheeks as he remembers the things his uncle had written to him, and imagines Snape reading them. "What would you want with it, though?" he asks, a little defensively.

"I realize that your powers of textual analysis are limited," Snape says, and Harry can already tell this isn't going to be a real answer to his question, "but did it entirely escape your notice that in that letter, your uncle issued a credible threat to betray you to the Dark Lord at the first opportunity?"

Harry blinks at him. "Well, no, not really." At Snape's irritated expression, he adds, "I mean, yeah, I know he said that, but...he calls him 'Lord Whatsit', so I didn't think there was any point taking him seriously. I mean, I don't really see Uncle Vernon popping round to the Malfoys' to plot my death over tea and biscuits, do you?"

"On the contrary, Mr Potter," Snape says, in an icy voice that makes Harry sit up straighter automatically. "I find it all too easy to envision such a scenario."

"What?" Harry cannot help laughing. "You're joking."

Snape gets to his feet so fast that Harry can't help himself—he flinches backwards, nearly upsetting his ink bottle in the process. Snape grows absolutely still and clenches his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and for a few seconds he says nothing.

When he speaks again, his voice is tight and tense.

"The Dark Lord," he says, "knows where you spend your time away from school, Potter. That is why the Order of the Phoenix have been patrolling the neighborhood of Privet Drive for the past two summers. The only thing that keeps you safe there is the protective magic your aunt sealed the moment she accepted you into her home when you were an infant. Should she reject you, those wards will fail, and he would have clear access to you there."

"Well, yes," Harry says slowly, in what he hopes is a calming voice. Snape looks ready to snap at any moment. "I know all that, Professor."

"Then it ought not be too bold a leap of deduction for you to realize that if the Dark Lord ever became aware that your relatives regard you in the light of an unwelcome burden, rather than as a cherished member of their family, emissaries from his ranks would immediately set out to court their favor. Vernon Dursley would not need to find his way to Malfoy Manor. Lucius Malfoy would call upon him."

"Oh." Harry shifts uncomfortably. Suddenly, he too finds it easy to imagine his uncle and Lucius Malfoy together—always assuming Malfoy knows how to dress like a Muggle, Uncle Vernon would probably warm right up to him."I guess I see what you mean. Still, how would Malfoy find out?"

"He undoubtedly already knows." Strangely, Snape seems to relax slightly. "Or he will in a few days. Your uncle's attack on you is already common knowledge throughout the school."

"It is?" says Harry faintly. His stomach begins to twist, making him feel nauseous.

"It could hardly be otherwise. It happened in a public area, and there were a number of witnesses—to the aftermath, if not the even itself."

Harry stares down at the lap desk and the blank parchment before him. He is still holding his uncle's letter in his hand. Suddenly, he would like nothing better than to rip apart piece by piece.

There is a noise beside him; he turns his head to see that Snape has taken a seat in the chair by the bed again.

"As it happens, all of that is moot at this juncture," says Snape, sounding slightly more conversational. "Even if you uncle had never issued such a threat, it is now quite clear that you cannot return to his home next summer. Your uncle plainly cannot be trusted to keep his hands off you, not even in the presence of another wizard."

Harry stares at him, hardly daring to trust what he is almost sure Snape is saying to him. "Then, it's—you're saying—I don't have to go back? I'm not going back to Surrey anymore?"

"No," says Snape. "You will not return to Surrey. Ever again, I imagine, unless at some point in your adult life you decide to pay them a call—revisit all the pleasant memories." Harry is not sure, but he almost seems to be hiding a small smile.

"Where am I going then?" Harry asks, trying to quash the panic that seems to coil tightly around his torso from somewhere outside him.

"That has yet to be determined."

Harry nods distractedly, his mind racing ahead of the conversation as he considers the possibilities. Where would Dumbledore be likely to send him? The Burrow? Grimmauld Place, where every time he turns a corner he'll half expect to see Sirius, lurking just out of sight? There are no good options, Harry realizes suddenly, feeling trapped, pinned down on all sides by the inevitability of the thing.

"Potter?" says Snape, and Harry realizes that something of what he is thinking must be showing on his face.

"I can't believe it was all for nothing," he whispers, staring off past the end of the bed and determinedly avoiding Snape's eyes.

"What was for nothing?" says Snape, in a strange, sharp voice.

"Hiding it," Harry says, more to himself than to his teacher. "All these years. Lying to people. Keeping my mouth shut when every year I wanted to tell someone. I just...I put up with anything they wanted to do to me, all so no one would be in danger because of me." Harry's fists clench in the covers on either side of him. "I screwed up."

Harry almost does not notice the length of the silence that follows this, so lost has he become in his own thoughts. At last, he hears Snape clearing his throat; Harry jerks, and looks over at him.

"Try to have a little faith in the prodigiously powerful witches and wizards who have been working to insure your safety, Potter," Snape says, and though his voice is dry rather than reassuring his expression is perfectly serious. "It is not a foregone conclusion that death and destruction will follow you wherever you go."

Harry snorts, and looks away again. "Say that again with a straight face."

"I am quite in earnest."

Harry shakes his head. He does not want to talk about this anymore. Suddenly, he remembers the letter he is still holding. "You said something about an assignment, sir?"

"Yes. I did." Snape's voice takes on a new, brisker tone, and he jerks his head in the direction of Harry's clenched hand. "You have there a letter from your uncle."

"Yes, sir," Harry says warily.

"You are going to reply to it."

Harry blinks at him, unsure he can have heard the man correctly. "Reply to it?"

"That is what I said. You will reply to the letter and inform Vernon Dursley that you will not be returning to his home this summer."

"But isn't—" Harry swallows. "Isn't my uncle—couldn't someone else tell him? Isn't he still in the castle?"

Snape's face darkens. "Who told you that?"

"I just assumed, sir. I figured you'd have told me if he'd left."

"Hmmph." Snape nods jerkily. "Yes, he is still in the castle. That, however, is beside the point. He has written to you. Replying is merely a matter of common courtesy."

Harry stares at Snape so hard he can practically feel his eyes bulging from his head. "Courtesy?" he says, a little louder than he means to. "You want me to be polite to Uncle Vernon?"

"Courtesy is always appropriate, Potter," Snape tells him in a strangely offhand sort of voice, the kind that makes Harry think he is really saying something else and waiting for him to catch on. "You will write your uncle an appropriate reply to the letter he has sent you."

"Appropriate," Harry says dully. "Right. What is this, like Occlumency? Another exercise in trying to make me clear my mind and stop being emotional?"

Snape's eyes glitter strangely at this. "No, Potter," he says. "It is an exercise, yes, but I do not intend it should resemble Occlumency in the least. I have little taste for futile endeavors."

"Right," says Harry, the little square of white paper suddenly feeling heavy in his hand.

Snape rises from the chair. "It is now just after four o'clock," he tells him. "At six o'clock, if you have produced an acceptable draft of your reply, you may attend dinner in the Great Hall. Miss Lovegood came by during lunch, and she has volunteered to walk you there and back."

"Oh. Right!" Harry finds himself brightening at this. Then, just as suddenly, his spirits fall again. "Wait—she's walking me there because my uncle's still around? That's crazy, if you think I'm going to risk him attacking Luna because of me—"

"Miss Lovegood is a witch," Snape informs him severely. "A gifted one, when she bestirs herself. Your uncle is a Muggle. You would not need an escort if you were not apparently incapable of remembering that you are a wizard in his presence. Dumbledore has taken personal charge of your uncle for the duration of his time here, so there is little chance either of you will run afoul of him tonight, but if the unlikely should occur, she understands that she is to Stun first and ask questions later. I believe," he adds in a dryer voice, "that she has a particular knack for defensive spells—something about a membership in an illicit student organization during Dolores Umbridge's term as Headmistress?"

Even as Harry flushes, he cannot help smiling. "Yeah. She was pretty good."

"Then I suggest you get to work." Snape turns for the door, which opens for him as he approaches. "Remember, Potter. You are to pen an appropriate response."

"Right," says Harry to himself, as the door swings shut behind him. He stares down at the blank parchment in front of him. "Whatever that means."

Two hours later, Harry looks up from the writing table on his lap to the sound of a knock at the door. "Come in," he says, setting the table aside and picking up the parchment to blow on the wet ink.

The door opens by a crack, but, contrary to his expectations, the face that appears there does not belong to Snape. "Hi, Harry!" says Luna, beaming at him from across the room. "Oh, you look much better."

"Luna, hi!" Harry smiles, immediately sitting up straighter. "How are you? I looked for you this morning in the Great Hall."

"Oh, I didn't have time for breakfast," she says, gliding into the room and coming to perch on the edge of his bed. "I spent last night in the Forbidden Forest. One of the unicorns just foaled, and the baby is sick. I was helping Hagrid after dinner, and the time got away from me."

"Wow," says Harry, staring at her. "Didn't you get into trouble?"

"I don't think anyone noticed me gone," she says. "Don't tell Professor Snape, though, I don't think he would be very pleased."

"Yeah, I think you're right," Harry says fervently. He can just picture the look on Snape's face—although, come to think of it, Harry doesn't much like the idea of Luna spending the night alone in a forest teeming with centaurs and Acromantulas either. "I won't tell him, but...maybe you shouldn't do that again."

"There's no need, she was doing much better this morning." Luna nods vaguely, as though agreeing with something he hasn't said. "Are you ready to go to dinner, then? Professor Snape said I could walk you there."

"That remains to be seen," says a voice from the door, and Harry jumps, suddenly worried how long Snape has been standing there. The look on his face, however, does not suggest that he has just overheard one of his students confess to spending a night by herself in the Forbidden Forest. Harry rather thinks he wouldn't be able to restrain himself commenting on that, if he had heard. "Potter had an assignment to complete as a condition of his early release."

"Here, sir," Harry takes the now dry parchment in hand and starts to slide off the bed to take it to him, but Snape crosses the room before he has a chance and plucks it from his fingers.

Harry watches, a bit nervously, as Snape stands there over him and Luna, scanning the lines Harry has spent the last two hours writing, scratching out, rewriting, then copying onto clean parchment. There is a peculiar tightness about Snape's mouth as he reads that Harry suspects doesn't bode well for his chances of making it out of the room tonight.

At last Snape lowers the parchment and taps it with his wand. It furls itself into a scroll, and he slips it into a pocket of his waistcoat.

"Was it all right, sir?" Harry asks, still a bit put out not, only by having the letter in the first place, but by having to show it to Snape afterwards.

Snape merely arches an eyebrow in reply. "We will discuss it at greater length this evening," he says in a voice of dark promise. "For now, you may accompany Miss Lovegood. You have your wand, I trust?"

"Of course I have my wand!" Harry says, rather stung. Just because he froze up in front of Uncle Vernon once doesn't mean he's got a death wish, and he doesn't like Snape implying that he thinks otherwise.

"Then go," Snape says. "I expect you back no later than seven thirty. That should be ample time to eat a meal and listen to Miss Granger's painfully detailed recounting of all the lessons you missed today."

Harry only just restrains himself rolling his eyes. "Right. Thank you, sir."

Snape stands back to watch Harry and Luna leaving the room, and Harry does not speak again until the door of Snape's chambers have closed behind them.

"Between you and me," he says, tossing a look behind his shoulders to be sure Snape hasn't suddenly decided to follow them, "I'm not sure how much more of that I can take."

"How much more of what?" Luna says.

"Snape, having the final say on everything I do and everywhere I go," Harry says. "It's not normal. It's like being a prisoner, or..." Harry can't think of any other similes.

"Like having a parent?" Luna suggests.

"Well, I'm not an expert, but I don't think Mr and Mr Weasley poke their nose into Ron's affairs like Snape's been doing to mine."

"No, but the Weasleys have seven children. What do you think Mrs Weasley would be like if Ron were an only child?"

Harry does think about it—and then he shudders. "Right. Maybe Snape's not so bad after all. Although I reckon he'd have a fit if he heard you saying he was acting like a parent."

Luna smiles at this, but doesn't say anything in reply. They round a corner together, and have just come within sight of the spiral staircase leading up into the main part of the school when—

"Damn," says Harry immediately, as four boys in Slytherin uniforms round the opposite corner and stride towards them, with grim, deliberate expressions on their faces, as though they have just found something they are looking for.

"Do you know them?" Luna says, sounding a little more unconcerned than Harry thinks the situation calls for.

"No," says Harry, though this is not precisely true. He does not know any of their names, but he does recognize them as some of the same Slytherin seventh years who had been watching that morning when Dumbledore had confronted Snape. "But they don't look happy to see us."

"Don't they?" says Luna. "I think they look rather pleased, myself."

"Potter!" shouts the tallest of them, a thin, rangy looking boy with dark hair and a long, pale face. "Thought you'd disgrace our Head of House, did you? Thought you'd get away with that?"

"Luna," Harry turns to her, reaching for his wand, as the Slytherin students rapidly close the distance between them. "Get out of here. Go back and get Snape—"

But before he has even finished his sentence, he knows someone has fired a spell at them—he hears a crackling noise, as though the air around them has burst into flame, and he smells smoke and ozone, harsh in his throat and nose. Harry whirls and points his wand, but Luna beats him to it—she lunges in front of him, shouting "Stupefy!", and the two Slytherins in front collapse, tripping a third.

Harry grins to himself, admiring her quick work, even as he raises his own wand to Stun the tallest boy, who is still on his feet. Before he can, however, the third Slytherin on the floor fires a nonverbal spell that strikes Luna full in the chest—Harry can't tell what it has done to her, but she reels backwards against him, knocking him to the ground.

"Luna, GO!" Harry shouts again, suddenly panicked, as he scrambles back to his feet. Luna does not fall, however—she catches herself against the corner of the wall with one hand, and with the other she raises her wand to fire another spell. Before she can finish, however, the tallest boy has leaped over the fallen bodies of his friends and slashed the air between them with his wand. Luna cries out in pain, falling backwards again, and this time when she hits the floor she does not get back up.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cries furiously, as the Slytherin makes another slash with his wand. Harry dodges, but the spell catches the side of his face; he feels a sharp, stinging pain along his left cheekbone, and he can see blood from the corner of his eye. The tall boy's wand flies from his hand, and Harry cries "Stupefy." A moment later, all four Slytherins lie in a tangled, unconscious heap on the stone floor before him.

Harry stands there, panting, feeling a trickle of blood run down the side of his face. He gives the Slytherins one final look to be sure they are no longer moving, then turns back to where Luna lies.

Half a second later he is on his knees beside her, patting the side of her face frantically.

"Luna," he says. "Luna. LUNA!"

From neck to waist, Luna is covered in blood, bright red and spreading rapidly across the white cloth of her blouse. There is so much of it that for an instant Harry is sure she must be dead—surely no one can bleed that much and still be alive. On top of that, the right side of her face is bright pink and blistering, as though she had stumbled face first into a hot stove burner.

Fingers clumsy with panic, Harry unbuttons his jumper and wads it into a thick bundle, pressing it hard against her chest. He can't tell exactly where all the blood is coming from, but there is so much of it, he is sure the cut must be very deep and very long. Luna's face is deadly pale beneath the burns, and when he leans over her he cannot hear whether she is breathing. His own breath is coming in ragged gasps, and he fights to control it, because he cannot pass out now, not before he gets help.

Help... He cannot leave her alone, not while she is bleeding like this. He has no idea how to mend wounds with magic. He could levitate her, he thinks, but it would take at least ten minutes to get to the infirmary towing her behind, even if he went at a dead run. Back to Snape's quarters would be faster, but it would still take him five minutes or more, and he is afraid to leave off applying pressure.

Bitterly, Harry remembers Dumbledore telling him at the end of last year that members of the Order of the Phoenix had means of communicating with each other besides owls and floos. But he's not a member of the bloody Order, is he? No, ickle Harry Potter has to be protected. Never mind that things keep happening to him, and people keep getting hurt and dying because of him. Never mind the number of times in his life lately when it would have come in dead useful to have a private means of communicating with—

Harry rears back, and fumbles with his wand. He does have way to get in touch with someone—to get in touch with Snape. That toy soldier of his—no one can Apparate inside Hogwarts, but they can travel by Portkey, and isn't that what Snape had said the soldier was? A modified Portkey, anyway. He isn't carrying it with him, he had hidden it away in his room right after Snape had given it to him, but if Harry could Summon his Firebolt all the way from the arena during the First Task, surely he can Summon a tiny toy soldier to the dungeons?

"Accio Harry's Portkey," he cries, then drops his wand again immediately and presses his hand back to the jumper. The blood, he notes shakily, has almost soaked through it.

A minute later, he hears a whizzing sound in the air next to his ear, almost like the flapping of a Snitch's wings. He looks up; the tiny green soldier is bobbing in the air by his head. Harry snatches it, thinking frantically. What had the incantation been? Porti, and then the name of his location in English. But what to call this place?

"Porti Hogwarts, dungeon corridor by the spiral staircase," he shouts desperately, and taps the soldier three times with his wand. He feels a sudden burst of gratitude toward Snape for not making him figure out the Latin—Luna would probably be dead well before he ever managed it.

The soldier heats in his hand, and glows blue.

Not until he hears a pop, similar but not identical to the noise of someone Apparating, does Harry realize he has been holding his breath. He exhales gustily, and cranes his head. Snape is standing at the foot of the spiral staircase, whirling from the left to the right in a posture of extreme agitation. His back is turned to Harry and Luna, and Harry opens his mouth to call him, only to find his throat too dry to speak.

"Potter!" Snape shouts, and even through his own distress Harry can hear the note of panic in his voice.

"Professor!" Harry tries to shout back, though the noise he makes is more of a croak. Still, it does the job—Snape turns on his heel, and Harry sees him go completely rigid for an instant. Then he is running, robes flapping behind him, and for a moment Harry thinks he is going to trample right over the pile of students from his House lying on the floor between them. He doesn't, however, to Harry's mild disappointment—he dodges them nimbly and comes to a sliding stop on the floor beside Luna, wand in hand.

"Let me see her," he says sharply, and Harry shakes his head.

"She's bleeding too much," he gasps, furious to realize his eyes are prickling with tears. "I can't let up—"

"I can close the wound, Harry, but I have to see it."

Harry draws the jumper away, finding it heavy with all the blood it has soaked up. Snape makes a hissing noise between his teeth at the sight of the blood, and his hand moves to the collar of Luna's shirt.

"Don't look," he says, and begins to open the buttons.

"It's just blood, I can handle—"

"You will give her the respect she is due, Potter, and turn your head!"

Suddenly understanding what Snape is saying, Harry flushes and does as he is told.

A few seconds later he feels Snape's hand cupping his chin, pulling his head around to face him. Harry glances down, to see that Luna's shirt is still unbuttoned, though the crimson edges have been pulled together.

"I've stopped her bleeding," Snape says, touching his wand to the side of Harry's face, and drawing it down in a curving line. The stinging, which Harry had almost stopped noticing in his panic over Luna, immediately stops; he can feel the strange sensation of flesh knitting itself back together along his cheek. "Are you well?"

"I—" Harry finds he is still having trouble catching his breath; now his panic is beginning to subside, he is aware of a fierce ache spreading along his ribs on the left side of his body. "I think so—"

Snape peers at him closely, looking as though he doesn't quite believe him, but then he shakes his head. "She needs a Blood-Replenishing Potion immediately. Go back to my quarters. Run—if you can. There is an emergency password, 'asphodel', it will release the wards at the door and over the cabinet where I keep my personal stores. Use a Summoning charm. Go, now!"

For a moment, Harry wonders if his legs are going to hold him—he feels deep shudders racking his body from head to foot—but he climbs to his feet, stumbling only a little, and forces himself to put one foot in front of the other as fast as he can.

"Asphodel," he shouts, a few yards away from the portrait of Merlin and Nimue. It swings open for him, like the automatic doors at a Muggle grocery, and Harry bounds inside, raising his wand. "Accio Blood-Replenishing Potion!"

A large brown bottle comes soaring around the corner that leads towards Snape's workroom. Harry catches it, and turns immediately back for the door, conscious that the painful stitch in his side is worsening. He finds himself gasping for air, but he runs anyway, and arrives back in the corridor less than two minutes later.

The scene has changed slightly, in his brief absence. The four Slytherin students who had attacked them are still on the floor, but rather than lying in a jumbled heap they are stretched out on their backs in a neat row, and each of them are bound hand and foot with thin black ropes. Luna, likewise, is no longer sprawled with her arms and legs askew; Snape has gathered her head and shoulders onto his lap, and even in the midst of his worry Harry is slightly boggled to see Snape's bloody hand stroking the long blonde hair out of her face. A long padded stretcher sits to one side, and Harry can't help wondering why Snape hadn't simply settled Luna there.

"Sir, here," Harry says breathlessly, and once he has thrust the bottle of potion into Snape's outstretched hand he can do nothing more than collapse against the wall, chest heaving, fighting the urge to clutch his side and howl in pain.

He watches as Snape pulls the stopper out of the bottle and places the mouth between Luna's parted lips, tipping it gradually upwards a little at a time. When the bottle is empty, he casts it aside; it rolls with a hollow, clinking noise across the stone floor, coming to stop at the feet of one of the Slytherin boys. Harry waits, feeling as though a leaden weight has settled on his chest, until the color begins to return to Luna's cheeks. A second later she gives a little fluttering sigh, shifts slightly in Snape's arms, and then grows still again.

"She'll live," Snape says hoarsely, and Harry sees his shoulders slump, as though a great tension has drained from his body. "But it was a near thing. We'll take her back to my chambers, I don't want to risk the journey to—" and then he looks up at Harry, and silences himself mid-sentence. His dark eyes narrow.

"You lied," he says flatly.

"I did?" says Harry, feeling too hazy to guess what Snape is talking about.

"You are not well. Not remotely. God knows what—" He shuts his mouth, and his lips compress in a thin white line.

Harry jerks when Snape draws his wand, but he only points it at Luna, whose body rises gently from Snape's lap to bob in the air above him. Snape gets to his feet once she is clear of him, and directs her limp form onto the stretcher. Another wave of his wand, and the stretcher levitates beside him at waist height.

This done, Snape takes a step towards Harry and bends over, extending a hand towards him. Harry stares at it, blinking, for a moment, then reaches up to grasp it. Snape pulls him to his feet with one forceful tug.

"Shall I conjure another stretcher?" he asks, looking grim.

"No thanks," Harry says, though now the adrenaline is no longer pumping he feels rather weak. He closes his eyes to shut out the sight of Snape's look of skeptical consideration.

A moment later, Harry feels Snape's hand on his shoulder, giving him a small push forward. Harry takes the cue and opens his eyes, following Luna's stretcher as it begins to glide through the air in the direction of Snape's quarters.

Harry's vision is slightly grey around the edges, and worry for Luna is burning in his stomach like acid. He is afraid for her, and almost sick with shame that once again someone he loves has come to harm because of him. He is exhausted, almost blind with pain, and he feels strangely hollow inside, as though he has been sobbing his guts out for an hour, or has thrown a screaming temper tantrum like he'd done in Dumbledore's office at the end of last year.

But Snape does not remove the hand on his shoulder until well after they have reached his quarters, and this, for some reason, makes all the rest a bit easier to bear.


	11. upon receipt

The door of Snape's quarters opens automatically for them, just as it had earlier for Harry. Snape, hand still on his shoulder, steers him through it; they keep a short distance between themselves and the end of Luna's stretcher, and Harry is reminded horribly of mourners walking behind the casket in a funeral procession.

They do not pause on the way to the bedroom. That door also opens for them automatically, and as soon as they have crossed the threshold, Snape begins to push him toward the bed.

"Lie down," he says, in a low, tense voice. "Lie perfectly still. Do not move until I give you leave, or I will place you in a body-bind."

Too tired to greet this command with anything but willing obedience, Harry stretches out along the left side of the bed, closest to the writing desk. He turns his head on the pillow to watch Snape conduct Luna's stretcher along the right side. To Harry's surprise, he does not levitate her off the pallet; he stoops, grasping her around the shoulders and under the bend of her knees, and rises with her in his arms. The stretcher disappears as though it had never been there, and Snape bends down to lay her gently on the bed beside Harry. She comes to rest so close to him that a strand of her hair tickles Harry's nose, and he can smell the bright, coppery tang of the blood covering her body.

"What are you going to do to them?" Harry finds himself asking, his voice dry and scratchy.

"What?" says Snape sharply. He is standing beside the bed still, wand gripped in his hand. He looks distracted, confused, and a little ragged.

"Those Slytherins," Harry says. "They came out of nowhere. They were coming for me. Luna jumped out in front of me—she nearly died—" Harry shuts his mouth, and his eyes. There are no words for what he is feeling at the moment. He wants someone to suffer for this, to feel some tiny part of the pain and the anger inside him, which are like nothing he has felt since the night Sirius had been killed. Somehow, it is important to him that Snape understand this.

"They are my students," Snape tells him. "They have shamed me and brought disgrace upon my House. They attacked and nearly murdered two students whom they knew to be under my explicit protection. For that, Mr Potter, you may believe me—there is no hole on earth deep enough to hide them from my wrath."

Harry nods mutely, not meeting Snape's eyes.

Snape walks around the end of the bed and reaches behind him with one hand to pull the armchair up close beside Harry. He perches on the edge and raises his wand, the tip of which ignites in a bright pinprick of light.

"Tell me exactly what happened," Snape says, reaching up to cup the side of his face. He shines the bright tip of the wand in one eye, then in the other—Harry flinches from the light, and Snape releases him, apparently satisfied. "Everything from the moment the two of you were accosted."

"I don't—" Harry swallows. "Would it be okay—" His mouth is so dry that his tongue seems to tangle in his teeth.

"Spit it out, Potter."

"May I get up for a moment, sir? I'd like to get some water."

Snape blinks at him for an instant. Then a strange expression of self-reproach crosses his features; he turns his head and twirls his wand in the air, conjuring a crystal goblet and filling it with water that spouts from the tip of his wand.

Harry begins to sit up, but Snape places a hand on his chest and pushes him back down onto the pillow again. He holds the goblet to Harry's lips, tipping it forward just enough to let him drink. The water is cold, and sweeter than pumpkin juice to Harry's parched lips and throat.

Snape lets him drink all he wants, then refills the goblet and sets it on the bedside table. "Thank you, sir," Harry says, feeling so much better for the drink that he is, for a moment, quite overwhelmed by gratitude for Snape—who had protected him from Uncle Vernon, saved Luna's life—

"Do not thank me, you idiot boy," Snape says, and Harry cannot help recoiling at the harshness of his voice. Snape sees it, and covers his face with a blood-stained hand. He removes it a second later, and stares at his palm, seeming to see the discoloration for the first time.

"Tell me what happened," he says again, meeting Harry's eyes, and this time his voice is much softer. He sounds hoarse and exhausted to Harry's ears. "Specifically, I need you to tell me as much as you can remember about the curses they used on you and Luna, in case there is hidden damage to either of you that cannot wait for Madam Pomfrey."

"I'm not sure," says Harry, thinking back. It had all happened so fast. "The only one that hit me was the one that cut my face. Luna—" Harry swallows, hard, "Luna got hit—three times, I think, and the spells were all nonverbal, I didn't recognize them—"

"Describe the wand movements, and any other details you can recall."

"The first one—I didn't see the wand movement, but it made the air around us hot, almost like it was burning. I think it hit her, I'm not sure, she jumped out in front of me—" And there is the guilt again, rising up from his stomach to tighten his throat, choke him on the enormity of it all. Harry reaches down on the bed beside him and grasps Luna's hand. It feels small and icy inside his own, and he shudders involuntarily.

"The second one," he forces himself to go on, "I didn't see the movement for that one either, but it hit her hard—almost knocked her off her feet. She fell against me, and I hit the floor. That's why I couldn't—I wasn't able to stop them—" Harry shuts his eyes. "Professor, could you please conjure a blanket for Luna? She's freezing."

Rather to his surprise, Snape gets to his feet immediately, but he doesn't draw his wand. He moves instead to the carved oak chest at the foot of the bed, and bends over it, taking out a large folded quilt, stitched in a plain pattern of dull red and green octagons.

"Go on," Snape tells him, as he shakes the quilt out. It is huge, large enough to cover the entire bed and touch the floor on both sides.

"The third one, the one that knocked her out, that tall kid did it. He did most of it. He sort of slashed his wand downwards. I think that was the one that...cut her. He did the same thing to me, before I was able to Disarm him, but it only hit my face. After that, I managed to Stun him, and the one on the floor—Luna had already Stunned the other two..."

Harry trails off, but Snape does not prompt him to continue. Instead, he raises his wand and floats the quilt through the air to hover over the bed. Harry reaches up and pulls it down on top of Luna. He tries to prop himself up on his elbow so that he can tuck the blanket in around her, but Snape pushes him back down onto the pillow again, and leans over Harry's side of the bed to drag the edge of the quilt up under his chin. He does the same for Luna before stepping back and regarding them both with a solemn expression, as though he is trying to figure out what to do next.

"If you have not left anything out, then I think you will both survive until I can fetch Madam Pomfrey to you," he says at last. "I also need to see Dumbledore and—" his lip curls, "attend to the malefactors. I shall have to leave you for a short time. Do you want anything? I cannot give you any potions until Poppy has seen you."

Harry shakes his head. "Nothing, sir."

Snape looks at him strangely, as though he does not believe him. "How bad is the pain?"

Harry flushes. He does not want to talk about how he feels right now—not while Luna is lying beside him, unconscious and drenched with blood. "It's fine, sir."

"You are lying to me, Potter," Snape says in a tight voice. "It grows tedious."

"I told you, Professor, Luna was the one who got hexed."

"Yes, Potter," says Snape, now nearly snarling. "And you are the one who, judging by your inability to inhale without flinching, undid all of Madam Pomfrey's work to heal your ribs by getting yourself knocked to the ground."

Harry grits his teeth. Now Snape mentions it, he realizes this is probably true. Still—

"Does it really matter, sir?" he says. "You just told me you can't give me any potions."

Snape looks strangely taken aback, as though he had not thought of this. Then his mouth tightens, and he gives a jerky nod.

"Very well," he says. "I will come back to you as soon as I can." He hesitates, looking from Harry to Luna then back again. "Do you still have the Portkey?"

For a moment, Harry can't remember whether he does or not. Then he realizes that it is still clutched in his hand, his fingers wrapped around it so tightly that they feel cramped. "Yes, sir."

"Try to stay awake. I know it won't be easy." Snape takes a step back, looking oddly hesitant. "Watch her closely. If she shows signs of worsening—if her breathing becomes labored, or her wounds re-open—use the Portkey again, and I will return at once." His voice grows stern. "Likewise, if you experience any difficulty breathing, or feel stabbing pains in your chest—"

"Right, sir," Harry says quietly. "I understand." He uncurls his fingers, and sets the little toy soldier on the bedside table where Snape can see it.

"What should I do if Luna wakes up?" he adds.

A bitterness deeper than any Harry has ever seen in him before darkens Snape's face. "She won't," he says. "Not for a long while. She came very close—" Snape breaks off in the middle of the sentence with a sharp jerk of the head. "She is sleeping now. It's the best thing for her."

"I'll watch her," Harry promises muzzily, and without another word Snape strides from the room, leaving Harry to turn his head on the pillow and hypnotize himself with the steady rhythm of Luna's breathing.

He should open the floo first. Snape knows this.

He should call Pomfrey down to his rooms and explain the situation to her, then call Dumbledore and explain it to him, and then allow the Headmaster to accompany him on the errand that now directs his steps towards the corridor where four students of his House lie Stunned and bound on the floor.

He does not, however, do any of these things.

He goes alone to the site of the attack. From a distance of twenty feet, he can smell the blood in the air. Snape hopes that none of the older Slytherins have passed by in his absence—if any of them should think to collect a sample of the spilled blood for their personal use, it could go badly for Luna. Or Harry, he thinks, remember the gash along the side of the boy's pale face. Some of the blood undoubtedly belongs to him—perhaps that spatter there against the wall...

In a distant sort of way, Snape is aware that he is in a dangerous state of mind, but he does not trouble himself to resist it. He turns a corner, and sees the offenders still in the neat row where he had left them—Hector Gibson, Michael Beadle, Toby Greenleaf, and Samuel Etching, side by side and motionless, reminding Snape of the dead moles he keeps in his cooling cupboard. Unlike the moles, however, at least one of the boys seems to have a friend; Pansy Parkinson is bending over Gibson with her wand out, cutting through the bonds securing his feet.

"What," Snape growls, without breaking his stride, and Parkinson jumps back, eyes widening, "do you think you are doing, Miss Parkinson?"

"Sir," she says, "I just found them here. I was about to come and find you—I thought someone must have pranked them—"

"Did you indeed?" he says, coming to a stop a few feet away. He steeples his fingers and gives her his most unpleasant smile. "Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me what sort of endeavor fitting the definition of 'prank' you imagine would result in the blood you see on the floor before you?"

Involuntarily, her eyes seek the large spreading stain of crimson on the stone floor. "I didn't know, sir," she says, "that's why I was going to find you—"

"But first, you were going to release Mr Gibson," he sneers. "You are a prefect, Miss Parkinson, try to remember that you have been entrusted with a larger responsibility than that entailed by comradeship with members of your House. As it happens, I was the one who bound them. Had I returned to find them missing—and you may be sure they would have fled the moment they were awake and had their liberty—you would have found yourself in the position of having abetted an attempted murderer."

Parkinson's eyes grow positively owlish. "Sir, I didn't think—"

"That is abundantly clear," he says. "Go to dinner. Do not breathe a word of this to another living soul. Gather the House for a meeting in the common room at 8.30 this evening—a full meeting, Miss Parkinson, I will not tolerate absence for any less reason than debilitating injury or illness, and that includes detention or Quidditch practice. Well?" he says, arching an eyebrow. "What are you waiting for?"

Parkinson nods, rising to her feet, and scurries off in the direction of the staircase. When she has disappeared from sight, Snape Summons the four wands lying at various points surrounding the bodies of his students. Then he kneels next to the prone form of Hector Gibson, points his wand at him, and says "Ennervate."

"You little fool," he breathes, as Gibson's eyes flutter open. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

Gibson's gaze fixes on him slowly. "Professor?" he says faintly.

"On your feet, Gibson," Snape says, rising and staring down at him past the end of his nose. "You have used Dark Arts in Hogwarts Castle. You have attempted to commit the crimes of a man. You will face me as one. On your feet!" he barks, as Gibson continues to blink confusedly at him.

Gibson scrambles up, stumbling a few times as he discovers that his hands are bound, but he gets there in the end, panting slightly. He is tall, of a height with Snape, but unmistakably a boy still in the softness of his face and the whipcord leanness of his build, and for a moment Snape is able to set aside his own fury to mourn for the life he has thrown away. Snape has, after all, known him since he was eleven years old, and as his teacher, much less his Head of House, some part of the blame is unavoidably his own.

"Have you learned nothing in seven years in Slytherin House?" he asks, in a voice of deadly quiet. "Such bullheaded, imprudent behavior as yours I might anticipate from a Gryffindor, but as my student I would have expected you to have acquired a deeper appreciation of the nuances of honor than to imagine that yours or mine would be served by an act a hundred times more disgraceful than the one you sought to avenge."

Gibson flushes furiously. "Potter's got it in for you! Everyone knows that! He blamed you for nearly blowing himself up and now the Headmaster—"

"Leaving aside the matter of Potter for the moment," Snape says, taking a step forward and causing Gibson to pale suddenly, "what, offense, precisely, did you imagine Miss Lovegood to have been guilty of?"

Gibson's mouth tightens. "She wasn't meant to be there," he mutters. "She came out of nowhere, firing hexes—"

"No," Snape cuts him off, taking another step towards him. "Do not dare to lie to me. She did not hex you. She did not even attempt it. She Stunned and Disarmed Etching and Beadle, and would have done the same to you. She defended herself and Potter with no malice. It was you, Gibson, who carved her body open like a Muggle butcher wielding an axe. A young lady. A girl. Of fifteen. You, I believe," and now his voice is little more than a whisper, "are of age, are you not?"

Gibson shudders, but does not reply.

"Shall I tell you," Snape continues, "how close you came to killing her? Indeed, as far as intent goes, you are a murderer. It is merest chance Potter was able to summon me in time to close her wounds. Even with my intervention, it is doubtful she will ever fully recover. And that is what you have done, boy. That is the stain you have lain on your soul, for a childish, schoolyard grudge—a petty, imagined grievance. For that, you have forfeited your place at this school. For that, you will almost certainly go to Azkaban."

Gibson hangs his head. Snape can just make out the glimmer of a tear as it slides down his face.

"And on the subject of happy chances," he continues, "can you begin to imagine what would have happened if you had succeeded in your original plan, and visited that sort of injury upon Potter? Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, cherished hero of our world? Can you begin to fathom it? He would have died, Miss Lovegood could not have saved him, and you would be famed throughout Britain as his murderer. True, you would have escaped Azkaban—in a few years, you may begin to consider that a kind of mercy. They would have given you to the Dementors without a trial. Assuming," Snape takes one final step towards him, so that he is nearly whispering in the boy's ear, "I had not killed you myself before they had the chance."

"You hate him!" Gibson gasps, though the noise is more like a sob to Snape's ears.

"He is under my aegis. Do not pretend you did not know it," Snape tells him.

He steps back from the boy, who has now begun sobbing openly, and just like that the killing rage inside him evaporates. They are children, all of them, and his to protect—from themselves, mostly, it would seem. He knows that he is as powerless to calm the rage that would drive a boy like Gibson to do what he has done as he is to convince Harry that he has a right to kindness—there is a kind of self-loathing at the bottom of both that he understands too well.

Snape steps away from Gibson and points his wand at Greenleaf, Etching, and Beadle, severing the bonds at their feet and waking them from their stupor.

"Get up," he tells them, in a voice that, even to his own ears, is more weary than anything else. "On your feet. We are going to the Headmaster's office. You will walk ahead of me, in a line, Gibson at back, Beadle in front. Do not look at or talk to anyone we meet on the way. Move."

If they draw stares on their way to Dumbledore's office, Snape does not notice them. He has eyes only for the boy ahead of him, whose shoulders do not cease to tremble until well after the door to the Headmaster's staircase has opened before them.

Immediately after they have reached the sanctuary of Dumbledore's office, Snape begs the Headmaster's pardon and makes use of his floo to call Madam Pomfrey and send her to Luna and Harry in his chambers. Now that his anger is under somewhat better control he finds himself questioning his judgement for not having done this immediately. Still, it has not been quite twenty minutes since the attack, and the immediate crisis had been averted the moment Luna had responded to the Blood-Replenishing potion. And, whatever else may be true, Snape knows he had needed those minutes alone, without the Headmaster's interference, to deal with Gibson. For all Dumbledore's wisdom, he had not been a Slytherin, and Snape doubts he had ever been so near to darkness as Gibson has come today, or Snape has been himself at various points in his life.

Hector Gibson and Michael Beadle are expelled. Snape had expected a long struggle, with conflicting testimonies and a final reliance upon Veritaserum, but Gibson saves them the trouble by making a full confession, and the others do not contradict his story. Beadle, likewise, confesses to casting the Inflammata curse that had burned Luna's face; he is locked and warded into a private room within the castle until his parents can come to fetch him, and Gibson is taken by floo into the custody of Aurors, who assure the Headmaster that he is, at least for the moment, bound for a holding cell within the Ministry, rather than Azkaban. Dumbledore accepts this with only a murmur of acknowledgment. Snape says nothing.

The punishment of Samuel Etching and Toby Greenleaf is left in Snape's hands. Snape orders them back to their dormitories with instructions to appear in his office at seven the next morning, and both boys cast longing glances at the floo on their way out, as though thinking that Gibson and Beadle had got off easy by comparison.

By the time all the relevant details have been attended to, it is nearly time for Snape to join the remaining students of his House in their common room. Yet he lingers, because Dumbledore has not dismissed him, and one does not depart the Headmaster's presence without his leave. They sit in silence together for nearly a minute; then Dumbledore waves his wand. Snape half expects a tea service to appear on the edge of the desk between them, but instead he finds a large, cut-glass decanter and two matching tumblers.

"Join me in a drink, Severus?" Dumbledore says. "Or would you prefer Firewhiskey? Personally, I've had a fondness for bourbon since attending the International Alchemist's Review in New Orleans in 1957, but I understand it isn't to everyone's taste."

Snape accepts the bourbon without bothering to mention to the Headmaster that if he never tastes Firewhiskey again, it will be too soon. They sip in silence together for another minute.

"Will you stand witness for Mr Gibson at his trial?" Dumbledore says abruptly.

"It depends on the charges they lay against him," Snape tells him, startled into honesty. "The Dementors have fled Azkaban. It would do him no harm to stay there, away from his parents' influence, for a year or so. If the Ministry become—overenthusiastic, however, I will intervene to the best of my ability." And then, for the relief of his feelings, adds, "bloody little fool."

"How were Luna and Harry when you left them earlier?" Snape can hear the unspoken question in the words: Why did you leave them alone? Snape waves his hand in a careless gesture, to cover the surge of his own guilt.

"Miss Lovegood was stable, and Potter was conscious." Snape shrugs. "Slytherin is assembling for a House meeting at eight thirty. I should just have time to stop by my quarters and look in on them beforehand." If you let me leave now, he does not say, but the Headmaster hears him anyway.

"Do that, if you please, Severus," Dumbledore says. "I must write to Xenophilus Lovegood, and await the arrival of Mr Beadle's parents. I trust you will alert me immediately there is any change in their conditions."

"Certainly," says Snape, rising as the Headmaster rises. He has just turned for the door when Dumbledore's voice stops him in mid-stride.

"They wouldn't have confessed, you know."

Snape looks back slowly over his shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"

"Without your influence, Mr Beadle and Mr Gibson would never have admitted their guilt. Horace Slughorn certainly never had so salutary effect upon his students." Dumbledore's eyes pierce him. "I made you Head of Slytherin House for a reason, Severus. I have never known a moment's regret for it."

Snape stares at the Headmaster for a long moment, feeling as though he has just been discovered in some humiliating perversity or self-indulgence. But there is no point pretending that Dumbledore has not seen right through him. He ought to be used to it by now, anyway.

With a sharp jerk of his head, he turns for the door again and makes his way back to the dungeons.

Halfway down the spiral staircase leading to the wing of the castle housing both his quarters and the Slytherin dormitory, Snape changes his mind about visiting Luna and Harry beforehand. He will need to keep a cool head about him when he speaks to his House, and reminding himself of the damage his students have done is probably not the best way to insure this. So he continues past his quarters, down to the Slytherin dormitory. The door opens for him without demanding a password, as though sensing his foul mood, and he is gratified to discover the students seated and waiting in the common room for him, talking quietly together in anxious apprehension.

Snape does not give them a chance to collect themselves before beginning his lecture.

"Earlier this evening," he says in a loud voice, as he sweeps down the stone steps into the sitting area, "four of your Housemates launched an unprovoked attack against two students from other Houses in the corridors near my personal chambers," He feels ninety pairs of eyes watching his every gesture, and makes an effort to school his features. Anger is appropriate; outrage is not. He cannot forget that Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott are listening. "Such was the viciousness of the attack that one of their victims nearly died. For their crimes against their fellow students, Hector Gibson and Michael Beadle have been expelled from Hogwarts, and Mr Gibson's role in the affair is being investigated by the Aurors. Furthermore, five hundred points have been deducted from Slytherin House on their behalf, and on behalf of Toby Greenleaf and Samuel Etching, who assisted them in their...folly."

Snape allows a moment for the students to murmur and direct curious, accusing looks at the unfortunate Messrs Greenleaf and Etching, who flush and attempt to blend into the background.

"I would wish it to be clearly understood," he continues, in a soft, deadly voice that rivets the attention of every person in the room, "that while a certain degree of House loyalty is expected of you, I have no use for the sort of muddled thinking that confuses rash, emotional, self-indulgent indiscretion with cunning and subtlety. The honor of Slytherin House is not served by foolish, criminal antics that end in one or more of its students being sent down in public disgrace. As Mr Etching and Mr Greenleaf will shortly be in a position to tell you, expulsion will seem like a blessing in comparison to what I will do to you if any of you ever again shame me in such a way. For now, I can only hope that the humiliation of finding your House in negative points in the second week of term will serve as a reminder of what I expect of each of you. Additionally," and here, he allows himself the indulgence of a very unpleasant smile, "since the seventh year boys seem incapable of policing their own ranks or arresting each other in the commission of untold idiocy, they will be accompanied to and from each meal by a prefect for the next three weeks."

Snape notes with satisfaction that the other seventh year boys—Covington, Hargreave, and Sargent—are staring at Greenleaf and Etching with expressions of mute fury. That, far more than the month of detentions he has planned for them, should drive the lesson home.

"As you know, it is not my habit to interfere with how you conduct your lives outside the classroom. I do not enjoy taking time out of my schedule to visit the common room—not for any such reason as this, at least. I trust you will see to it that further visits of this kind are unnecessary. It would be inconvenient to me in the extreme if I found myself forced to assign and enforce bedtimes and the like, but if you do not manage yourselves better in future I will have to consider it."

And now everyone is looking at Etching and Greenleaf with murder in their eyes, even the first years. Snape represses a smile. His work here is finished.. "I cannot linger to entertain questions this evening," he tells them, in a marginally more inviting voice. "However, you all know my office hours. You are welcome to see me if you have need. Good evening to you."

"How are they?" he demands without preamble, returning to his quarters and finding Poppy Pomfrey in his kitchen, making tea.

"Why in Merlin's name did you take so long about calling me, Severus?" she demands. "You oughtn't have wasted a second, not with curse damage of such severity. That girl should be dead, considering all the blood she's lost."

"I closed her wounds and gave her twenty drachms of Blood-Replenishing potion. Not even you could have done more in that space of time, and it was imperative I secure the malefactors before they took themselves off or did any more damage." Snape waves his hand impatiently, having already wasted more time on making his excuses than he would have wished. "How are they?"

With one last, long glare at him, Pomfrey finishes piling dishes onto the tea tray

"If Potter attempts to so much as sit up in bed before the end of the week, I expect you to tie him down, " she says curtly. "I have, under duress, consented to let him wash himself and visit the bathroom on his own, chiefly to save you having to fulfill the duties of a full time nurse, and in return he is to spend every other waking moment of his day flat on his back."

"He re-injured himself then?"

Pomfrey snorts. "Quite."

"I see. And Miss Lovegood?"

Her face darkens. "She'll recover."

"Is she awake?"

"Not yet, and she isn't likely to be for another few hours. She'll need close watching, Severus. I've half a mind to send her to St Mungo's—only I'd rather have your potions for her than Philophelia Jigger's."

"Yes," Snape says dryly, "improving rather than endangering Miss Lovegood's health is rather the point." He glances toward the open door of the bedroom. "I suppose she cannot be transferred to the infirmary?"

"It's not any less full of infectious children than it was yesterday, I'm afraid," she says. "Is it a problem?"

"I expect her father will come to see her once he receives the Headmaster's letter," Snape says obliquely by way of explanation.

"Well, give me a bit of warning and I'll be sure to be present. A bit of officious, matronly hovering should soothe any ruffled notions of propriety he may have."

Snape snorts, takes the tea tray out of her hands, and follows her into the bedroom.

Apparently Pomfrey has already considered the demands of propriety in the current situation and done what she is able to enforce it. Snape finds his large, comfortable bed has been Transfigured into two separate beds, each with their own hangings and curtains. There is also a long rack with curtains down the center of the room, serving as an effective partition, although they aren't drawn at the moment. Snape concedes to himself wearily that the measures are necessary, and simply hopes that Pomfrey's Transfiguration will revert when he at last his chambers to himself again.

Harry looks up as Snape carries the tea tray to the work table Pomfrey has also Transfigured, presumably from one of the bedside tables. "Hi, Professor," he says, as Snape pours a cup of tea out for him. "How—how did it go?"

Snape carries the tea cup over to him. Harry pushes himself up on an elbow to take a sip from it, then hands it back to him, and he sets it aside. "The perpetrators have been dealt with."

"Expelled?" Harry's face, Snape notes, is very white, but there is a grim, determined cast to his expression that makes Snape think he had better satisfy him in this.

"Gibson, and Beadle, who cast the Inflammata curse, have been expelled, and Gibson is in the hands of the Aurors," he tells him. "Etching and Greenleaf have been left in my hands, which is probably more than they deserve, considering it was only Miss Lovegood's quick action which prevented them committing like atrocities. Five hundred points have been deducted from Slytherin for their actions."

Harry blinks at him owlishly. "You...you took points. From Slytherin."

"Contrary to popular belief, I am not incapable of doing so when the situation merits it."

Harry's eyes leave his, and his gaze falls on Luna, sleeping, pale and drawn under the blanket. Pomfrey has removed her blood soaked clothing and dressed her in a nightgown of fine, light blue wool. She looks fragile and breakable in the delicate garment.

"I reckon this one did," says Harry flatly.

Snape is not sure what impels him, but he finds his hand drifting to the side of Harry's face, to trace the jagged pink line of the sealed cut marring the side of his pale face. "So it did," he says quietly.

Harry stares at him, eyes wide and round. Rather to the embarrassment of both of them, Snape suspects, Harry's eyes brighten suddenly, as though with tears, but he blinks and looks away again, and nothing more comes of it.

Snape stands and joins Pomfrey at Luna's side. Pomfrey is running a diagnostic scan with her wand, lips pursed, muttering to herself occasionally.

"Perhaps you should tell me," he says, "what to expect."

"There's precious little to tell," Pomfrey snaps. "She should sleep for most of the next several days. Wake her every six hours and have her drink another twenty drachms of Blood-Replenishing potion. Do you have a sufficient amount in your own stores, or shall I send some over from the infirmary?"

"I have enough for the moment," he says. "I shall brew more tomorrow. The Headmaster is taking my classes this week, I will have the time."

Pomfrey gives a tight nod. "Watch the wound carefully for the next twenty four hours," she says. "You did a neat job mending it, but with cursed wounds there's never any telling..."

At least, Snape thinks, the gown Luna is wearing is of a light color. Any bleeding should be immediately noticeable, without forcing him to violate her privacy.

"I will visit again in the morning," Pomfrey says, and spins on her heel to face Harry's side of the room. "And you, Mr Potter. You remember your instructions, I trust?"

"Flat on my back, 'cept for the loo, or you'll tie me down," Harry recites dutifully, with the air of one quoting an oft repeated maxim. "I remember, Madam Pomfrey."

"Excellent. Till the morning, then." She gathers the rest of her kit from the worktable, and turns to sweep from the room."

Snape remains where he is by the side of Luna's bed for a moment, then draws the chair up beside her. Confident that the dim light from the waning fire and the shadows of the curtains will hide the gesture, he allows his hand to rest on the crown of Luna's head. Her bright hair is silky beneath his fingertips.

Harry's sleepy voice startles him from his reverie a moment later.

"You care about her, don't you?" he says, his expression unreadable in the artificial twilight.

Snape tenses, as though he has been caught out in some indiscretion. "What are you talking about?" he says.

Harry shrugs—or tries to. It isn't a very effective gesture, when made by a person lying flat on his back. "Luna," he says elliptically. "I know she likes you a lot. And you seemed—really upset, when you saw what they did to her."

"She was moments from death, Potter," Snape tells him stiffly.

"Yeah, but afterward you said those Slytherins had attacked two people you were supposed to protect. I know you're...stuck with me, because of the Headmaster, and me being fated to fight Voldemort, and all that. But Luna's not...she's not even in your House."

With what he hopes is a look of casual unconcern, Snape's removes his hand from Luna's head. It dangles, uselessly, by his leg. "Miss Lovegood is, owing largely to the unfortunate eccentricities cultivated in her by her father, occasionally the target of low-minded bullying by certain of the older students. There was an incident last year that necessarily resulted in the expulsion of one of my seventh year Slytherins. Afterwards, I informed my House that Miss Lovegood was off-limits to them. She is a pureblood, so I did not have to explain my reasons in much detail. Hector Gibson and Michael Beadle were aware of this when they attacked her." Wondering idly why he finds himself in such an expansive mood, he adds, "When it comes to students in my House, I have a—vested interest in countering the mentality that divides all people into the class of either predator or prey. The appetite for such cruelties is one the Dark Lord nurtures in his followers."

Harry nods at this. "I thought there had to be a reason," he says. "When you answered the Portkey, you seemed so worried..."

The hand at his side clenches into a fist suddenly, as he remembers the terror that had lanced through him hours earlier, when he had felt the charmed Galleon in his pocket heat in response to Harry's call. "I thought you had run afoul of your uncle again," he admits.

Harry blinks at him, somewhat muzzily. "You—" He seems to have difficulty forming words. "You were worried for me?"

Snape blinks back at him, startled. "Of course I was worried for you," he says scornfully. "You contacted me through means you knew to be restricted to situations of direst peril. I arrived on the scene to find you covered in blood. What else should I have felt but—" agonizing, gut-clenching terror, "concern?"

Harry continues to gaze at him, as though confused, until at last a sleepy smile pierces the haze. "You were concerned," he repeats, sounding slightly dazed. "That's...nice. It feels...nice..."

He trails off, and Snape peers at him across the room. "Harry?" he says.

There is no response. Snape stands, and walks over to his bed, bending low over him, to find Harry's eyes closed, and his breathing deep and even. He has fallen asleep mid-sentence.

"Ridiculous boy," he says gruffly—and then he brushes the hair back from the pale forehead, and pulls the covers up under his chin. The room is dark, after all, and they are alone. There is no chance of being apprehended in his folly, if folly it is. In the dimmest, most hidden chambers of his own mind, he is beginning to entertain doubts on that score.


	12. contents fragile

Xenophilus Lovegood  
The Rook  
Ottery St. Catchpole  
Sussex

Thursday 12 September 1996

Dear Xenophilius,

I have written many letters of this nature to the parents of my students over the course of my tenure as Headmaster, and after a great deal of trial and error I have come to believe that the best way to prevent unnecessary anxiety over the sort of news I must give you is to begin by wasting a moment of your time with a long-winded sentence that says very little about anything in particular. This is because I am sure you will realize that if I had anything terribly dire to relate, I should not be so unkind as to draw the experience out in such a way.

That said, I am afraid the news I have for you is, if not dire, still distressing: your daughter Luna was badly injured this evening in an altercation with some of her classmates. I am pleased to report, however, that Madam Pomfrey believes she will make a complete recovery once she has spent a few days convalescing in a restful environment. I would prefer to explain the details of the matter in person rather than attempt to do in a letter, and I believe that a visit from you would be a comfort to Luna. If you are able to come to Hogwarts, please let me know by return owl, and I will place myself at your convenience.

Regards,  
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Luna opens her eyes. It takes rather a lot of doing; they feel glued together, as though she is waking up after a very long lie-in, much longer than she's ever had while living in the girls' dormitories at Hogwarts. She sleeps erratically at home during the summers—waking after lunch, going to bed well after dawn. Sometimes when she is in bed on a hot afternoon, and the covers have tangled and twisted around her, and the sun is beating down on her through her windows, she wakes up feeling like she does now—headachey and suffocated. She's not at home, though. Nor is she in Ravenclaw Tower. The curtains around her bed are wide open. Never once in five years at Hogwarts has she gone to bed without drawing the curtains together; they are an important protective barrier against the giggles and smirks of the other girls in her House and year.

The pain is an interesting sensation. It seems to emanate from her chest and spread in a fierce ache upwards through her arms and the cords of her neck. Her head is throbbing as well, and there is a faint, ringing noise in her ears. She opens her mouth, licks her lips, and says, "Ow," because that's what people who are hurting seem to do. She must be doing it wrong, because it doesn't help the pain at all; maybe she hasn't said it loud enough. But her voice is croaky and her throat is dry and she doesn't think she could say it louder if she had to.

But then she hears a voice from somewhere to the left of here, and that is something new to think about, so she puts the pain to one side for a moment and focuses on the urgent noises the person across from her is making.

"Luna," it says. "Can you hear me? Are you awake?"

Slowly, Luna turns her head, without lifting it from the pillow. She has to blink a few times to make the other side of the room come into focus, but when it does she sees another bed, and a lumpy shape under the covers, and a familiar, dark head of hair that seems to be attached to it.

"Hi, Harry," she says. A few of the gravels in her throat seem to work loose as she talks more. "I'm glad to see you. Where are we?"

Harry pushes himself up on his elbow, which appears to cause him some pain. Luna grimaces sympathetically. Pain is very unpleasant.

"You're staying with me, in Snape's quarters," Harry says. "The infirmary's still full up with the dragonpox outbreak."

Luna feels rather foolish for not guessing before; it should have been obvious, from the bat skull on the fireplace mantle and the strange distorted figures in the painting on the wall beside it.

"How do you feel?" Harry continues, in the same urgent voice as before.

"Well," says Luna. Harry's face is swimming in and out of focus, and she's not entirely certain whether she's speaking aloud, or just thinking. "Rather unwell, actually. Was I bitten by a wrackspurt? I can't recall."

"No," says Harry. "We were attacked. In the corridor, on the way to dinner, remember? Those four Slytherins who came at us."

"Oh, of course," says Luna automatically. Now that she thinks about it, she does seem to remember something like that happening—people rushing towards them, four Slytherin boys so intent on Harry that she was able to Stupefy two of them before they even noticed her. And then, things had gone wrong...she remembers nothing but voices, blurs of noise and color, and then Professor Snape wiping the blood from her face, telling her not to be frightened...

"I hope they didn't hurt you very much," Luna says, because they must have hurt him a little bit or he wouldn't be in bed.

"Hardly at all, thanks to you," says Harry, and though he sounds rather unhappy about it he smiles at her. Luna finds that, if she concentrates, she can convince the muscles of her face to smile back. "You, though..." Harry trails off, studying her with a serious expression. "Hang on. I need to let Snape know you're up."

Luna watches as Harry pushes the blankets back and sits up in the bed. He is moving very stiffly, but he too seems to have figured out that saying "ow" really isn't as helpful as everyone seems to think it is. He puts one foot on the floor, and then another, then sits still for a moment, as though exhausted already.

"I think you shouldn't try to do that, Harry," says Luna. "You look as though you might fall over."

"Snape needs to know you're awake," Harry repeats, insistent, and pushes himself into a standing position. He sways for a moment, and Luna thinks he is about to tumble right back onto the bed, but a second later he exhales shakily and walks slowly out the open door, presumably to find Snape.

Luna has an excellent imagination, and more to the point she knows Snape rather well; she may not be able to see what is going to happen when Harry stumbles into Snape's presence, but she is fairly certain she can guess. She closes her eyes and exercises her reluctant vocal cords by counting out loud. "Five," she says, "four, three, two..."

"Potter!" Snape's shout carries through several stone walls and (if she remembers the layout of his chambers correctly) two open doors into the room where Luna is lying. "What do you think you are doing?

She doesn't hear Harry's reply, presumably because even Harry knows better than to shout back at Professor Snape, but after a moment she does hear a loud squawk that she presumes comes from Harry, if only because she has difficulty imagining Snape making such an undignified noise.

A few seconds later a stretcher floats through the open door of the bedroom, with Harry lying on top of it—in a full body bind, Luna thinks, judging from the peculiar rigidity of his limbs. Snape follows close behind it, wand raised, and levitates Harry, still lying perfectly flat, off the stretcher and onto his bed, where the covers lift up and settle around him again, as though tucked in by invisible hands.

"No sulking, Potter," says Snape, as with a third flick of his wand he ends the curse freezing Harry into immobility. "You were warned. Repeatedly."

"I thought it was necessary," says Harry, not sulkily, but with a definite undertone of grumbling.

Luna watches as Snape arches a forbidding eyebrow at Harry, then turns on his heel and stalks towards her side of the room. She sees that he is carrying a large, unlabeled brown bottle with him.

Snape comes to a stop beside her bed and extends his wand hand. The armchair on the other side of the room rises on its spindly legs and scurries across the floor towards him. Snape lowers himself into it, places the bottle on the bedside table, and reaches for Luna's hand. It is lying on the bed beside her; she would give it to him herself, but she's not sure she has the strength to lift it.

"Good morning, Miss Lovegood," says Snape, as he presses two fingers to her wrist and rests his other hand lightly against her forehead. "How do you feel?"

"I'm not sure," she says, feeling, for some reason, twice as sleepy as before, now that Snape is here. "I suppose that the pain is probably good. It would be much worse if I weren't able to feel anything." She closes her eyes, in case she isn't able to help crying. "All the same," she adds, "it makes it rather hard to think."

A moment later she opens her eyes again. Snape is frowning, first at her wrist, then at her face. He takes his hand away from her forehead and tucks her limp hand back under the blanket.

"Your pulse is weak, but that is to be expected," he says. "Can you sit up?"

Luna thinks about it for a moment. "No," she says, eventually. "I don't think I can. I'm sorry if that's an inconvenience."

A flicker of a smile passes over Snape's face. "Not at all," he says, and touches the tip of his wand to the pillow behind her head. "Engorgio," he says, and though Luna cannot see it, she can feel it growing behind her, pushing her head and shoulders up into a sitting position.

"You need to drink this," he says, handing her the bottle once she is more or less upright. "All of it. And before you ask, I'm afraid nothing can be done to improve the taste."

Luna takes the bottle from him and swirls the contents around inside. The liquid is thick and brackish looking, rather like algae coated mud. "What is it?" she says.

"Twenty drachms of Blood-Replenisher Potion," says Snape, "laced with a pain killer. You should feel much better after you've taken it."

Luna nods, consideringly, and stares at the bottle. The potion inside resembles sludge from the bottom of the pond where she goes in summer to catch marshwiggles.

"It looks like the sludge at the bottom of the pond where I go in summer to catch marshwiggles," she tells Snape.

"I'm afraid it will taste no better," he says, "but you must drink it. You can't have more than twenty drachms every four hours, and you will need at least 200 drachms in total before you are completely recovered from your injuries."

Luna thinks about this. "What sort of injuries?" she says. "Perhaps I wouldn't mind not recovering from them. If it meant losing a piece of my nose, for example. I shouldn't care about that."

"Miss Lovegood," says Snape warningly, his eyebrows contracting in a saturnine scowl.

"Yes, Professor," says Luna, sighing. Pinching her nose shut between two fingers, she drinks down as much as she can in one swallow. It takes four gulps to empty the entire bottle of its contents, and by the time Snape hands her a glass of water to wash the taste from her mouth she has begun to feel distinctly queasy.

"The nausea will pass," he tells her as she drinks. "Particularly as the pain begins to ease."

Luna is afraid to open her mouth, so she just nods her head.

"And until you have recovered your strength, you are to consider yourself as chained to that bed. I hope," he adds, shifting his stance slightly so as to include Harry in the statement, "that literal chains will not be made necessary by your inability to abide by instructions."

"No, Professor," she says, unsure why anyone would ever want to leave a bed as comfortable as this one.

"Very well," says Snape, standing. "I received a note from the Headmaster this morning, indicating that we will be receiving visitors this afternoon. Your father is expected, Miss Lovegood, along with Mr and Mrs Weasley for Mr Potter."

Luna feels a queer sensation in her chest, as though her heart had risen in her throat and then plunged down into her stomach all in one continuous motion. She doesn't have time to dwell on it, however, before Harry begins to speak.

"Mr and Mrs Weasley?" says Harry sharply. "I don't—why are they coming?"

"Visiting the sick is a custom among civilized persons, Potter," says Snape. "Perhaps you have heard rumors to this effect?"

It is a little strange, Luna thinks, that Harry should understand the Weasleys so little after all this time. But then, it is equally strange that Professor Snape should still fail to understand Harry, after everything he's seen over the last week or so. Strangest of all, maybe, is how little understanding helps you when you're feeling disappointed, or sad...

"Yes, sir," says Harry, sounding impatient, "but how did they know I was ill? Did you write to them?"

"I did not," says Snape. "I presume the Headmaster did, or perhaps one of their children." He frowns in Harry's direction. "Do you not wish to see them?"

"No, sir, it's not that," says Harry, and though he opens his mouth as if to explain further, he shuts it again a second later without saying anything else. Snape stands there, studying him, but he does not speak either. The silence in the room continues for so long that when Luna speaks again, it is largely so that she will have something else to listen to.

"Harry is afraid that someone told Mr and Mrs Weasley what his uncle did to him, and that's why they're coming," she tells Snape.

She can't see Harry's expression—as soon as she started talking, he had turned his face to the wall—but she can see the light of understanding dawning in Snape's eyes, before their expression grows blank again.

"I have no idea whether that is the case," says Snape in a neutral voice. "But did the Headmaster not promise to hold that information in confidence, Potter? And did you not extract a similar promise from Ronald Weasley?"

"Sort of," Harry mumbles. "But if the Headmaster thought—you know—that I'd be better off with them knowing..." He trails off, a little hesitantly.

"I do not believe the Headmaster would break a promise of that kind without, at least, warning you he intended to do so," says Snape, and Harry appears to relax somewhat.

"It'll be nice to see them, anyway," he says. "And your dad, Luna. I'd like to meet him."

If it were anyone other than Harry, Luna would be sure he was making fun of her. As it is Harry, she says, "Maybe you can, someday. We live quite near the Weasleys."

Harry frowns at her. "But if he's coming here today, then why—"

"Oh, I just don't think that's very likely," says Luna quickly, lightly. "He'll be much too busy—August is tinglewasp season, you know."

Harry looks confused. Snape regards her for a few seconds with a strange, closed expression. Then he clears his throat.

"I must return to my work," he says. "If some fresh disaster should befall you, call for me. Do not rise from your bed again, Potter, on pain of my extreme displeasure."

With a final, quelling glare, he turns and sweeps from the room, leaving the door open behind him. Harry and Luna are left alone with the noise of the crackling fire between them.

A moment later Harry turns his head to face Luna's side of the room and says, "Wanna play wizard's hangman?"

And Luna hears him, but so much of her brain is asleep already that he sounds as though he is speaking from a long way off—from a dream, or a distant country, where the natives speak a strange language she doesn't understand.

With the return of consciousness comes the return of pain.

"Miss Lovegood," says a voice next to her, and she opens her eyes, which is rather easier to do than it had been a few hours before. She finds Snape sitting in the chair by her bed again, leaning over her, and she smiles at him, a little vaguely, because she has the idea that he has said something to her that she hasn't understood.

"I have prepared the next dose of your potion," he says, and instead of Engorging her pillow again he cups the back of her head with a cool hand and helps tilt it upwards long enough for her to choke down the bottle full of revolting liquid.

"Thank you," she says, when she has swallowed the last of it. The pain killer, she thinks, must be stronger in this batch; she can feel the pain begin to recede immediately.

"Better?" he says, easing back in his chair.

"Professor," she says, quietly, because she thinks, somehow, it would be better not to let Harry hear this. "What happened to me?"

A dark expression crosses Snape's features, but he answers her in a calm voice. "Michael Gibson, one of my seventh years, cursed you with Sectumsempra. You...lost a great deal of blood. That is the purpose of the potion; it will encourage your body to make new."

"Oh," says Luna. "What happened to Harry?"

"You put yourself between him and the worst of the attack," says Snape, "but he over-exerted himself and exacerbated his existing injuries. He will recover, however, if he can be persuaded to remain in bed long enough to knit himself back together."

"Oh," says Luna. "I'm glad."

She is aware, even as she stares at the ceiling, that Snape is studying her. "You did very well," he tells her, after a few moments of considerate silence. "You fought courageously and ably. Many grown witches and wizards could not have done so well."

"Harry is my friend," she says quietly. Her eyelids feel heavy, and her eyes are burning.

"Go back to sleep," says Snape. Luna closes her eyes and does so.

The first thing she sees the next time she opens her eyes is Snape, standing at the end of her bed. In the shadows of the dim room, he is nearly invisible, save for the pale oval of his face.

"Professor," she says.

"Your potion," says Snape. Luna looks at her bed side table, where a tall brown bottle sits uncorked, emitting noxious fumes.

"Can I sit up?" she says.

Snape blinks. "If you feel able," he says. "The nature of Potter's injuries make it necessary for him to remain largely immobile. You, however, may exert yourself to the limits of your strength. Not beyond them, however," he adds warningly.

"I would like to try something," she says, but Snape cuts her off by levitating the potion off her table to just in front of her face. She contains and grimace and drinks it obediently.

"May I enchant a piece of your furniture?" she asks Snape, setting the empty bottle aside. "I promise to change it back afterwards."

Snape blinks at her curiously, then makes an expansive gesture with his hand that seems to indicate she has permission to try.

Luna straightens slowly in the bed and feels stiff muscles stretching for what feels like the first time in days. When she is fully upright she slips her legs out from under the covers and reaches automatically for the bedpost, where her robe would be hanging if this were her dorm room. There's nothing there, of course, which makes Luna wonder for the first time where the rest of her clothes are and how she'd gotten into the pale blue nightdress she's wearing, but when she gets to her feet Snape is standing there with a warm, fuzzy white bathrobe, holding it for her as she shrugs one arm and then the other into it.

Luna points her wand at the armchair beside her bed. A few seconds later it rises gently in the air and hovers there steadily, without dipping or bobbing. Luna takes a shaky step towards it, then lowers herself gingerly into the padded seat. The chair adjusts itself automatically so that her feet don't drag the floor. She raises her wand and points it toward Snape; the chair begins to glide in his direction, stopping when she lowers the wand again.

Snape is gazing down at her with a bemused expression. "Impressive," he says, and though it is often hard to tell she doesn't think he is mocking her.

"If you don't mind," she says, "I'd quite like to take a bath."

Snape blinks at her, surprised, but then seems to remember himself. He steps nimbly around the end of the bed and opens the door for her. Luna directs the chair to glide toward the end of the room where he is standing, and then to sail neatly through the open doorway.

She hears a long, low chuckle through the door once she has closed it behind her, but it silences itself after a moment. Luna allows the chair to come to a rest on the floor. She gets to her feet and stands in front of the mirror, a little hesitantly. The reflection that she sees...disturbs her, which is in itself a new sensation, but she'll have to analyze it later because she is, for the moment, too taken up with what she sees to consider how she feels about it.

The left side of her face is—scarred, she thinks, although that isn't the word that leaps immediately to mind. From the corner of her mouth to the corner of her eye, the skin is smooth, shiny, colored the same dull, delicate shade of pink she's seen inside sea shells. The rest of her face is paler than she has ever seen it, save for the dark, bruised looking rings beneath her eyes. Her hair is tangled and frizzy, and there is a patch of it along the left side of her face that is shorter than the rest, the ends singed and brittle.

Luna shrugs her way out of the bathrobe Professor Snape had given her and methodically begins to unfasten the buttons down the front of her nightdress. There are a great many of them and they are very small; she wonders again how she wound up wearing it in the first place. Her own nightgowns have deep necklines, because she tosses and turns in her sleep, and the ones that button around the throat get twisted up and sometimes choke her. She unbuttons the nightgown to the level of her waist, then pulls it open, and stares at the long diagonal scar that bisects the pale flesh of her torso in an angry red line. She raises a hand to touch it; the scar feels warm and fevered under her fingertips, and aches when she presses on it. The mark extends from just below the hollow of her throat to just above her navel. She hadn't realized it was possible to have taken a wound like that and still be alive.

Luna blinks at her reflection twice, then turns away from the mirror. She allows the nightgown to slide off her shoulders, as she points her wand at the bathtub, which immediately begins to fill with hot, clean water. As an afterthought she adds soap bubbles. Lowering herself into the tub is an exercise in ingenuity; twice she nearly raises her voice to ask Professor Snape for help, before she remembers what she is doing. Her head feels a little swimmy; she assumes it is due to the steam and soothing warmth of the bath water. Once she is in the tub she relaxes entirely and lets herself float to the surface. It is easier to think of nothing, this way. Snape thinks that her father is coming to visit. Why would he think that? Had someone written to him? It seems unlikely to Luna that her father would remember to open a letter addressed to him personally and not The Quibbler, much less that he would reply to it. Professor Snape must be making assumptions; natural assumptions, perhaps, for someone who had never met her father. Luna closes her eyes and sinks beneath the water so that only the tip of her nose protrudes. And Mr and Mrs Weasley are coming to visit Harry. That will be nice for him. Mrs Weasley makes Luna a little bit nervous, ever since her mother died and Mrs Weasley came by regularly for a few months then stopped altogether. She thinks that Mrs Weasley feels guilty for not keeping up with her and it makes her a little too bright and cheerful whenever they see each other now. But she cares for Harry quite a lot, Luna, is sure, so that will be nice for him.

She struggles up out of the water again a few minutes later, because she has an idea that falling asleep in the tub might be unwise. Getting to her feet is not quite as challenging as getting into the water had been, but she does it a bit too fast and is rewarded for her imprudence with greying vision. Luna steps out of the tub, performs a few drying charms, then shrugs the bathrobe back on. The greyness at the corners of her vision has not improved, and now she feels a pins-and-needles sort of tickling between her eyes. She doesn't want to pass out in the bathroom and hit her head, but she'd rather not go back into the bedroom wearing only a robe to ask for help. Luna edges back into the seat of the floating chair and starts to leans over and hang her head between her knees, but she has barely moved before an extraordinary pain lances her, like a knife to the heart, so sharp and unexpected that she cries out without meaning to. Slowly, she straightens again; the pain begins gradually to ease, but it does not go away.

There is a loud, urgent knock at the door. "Miss Lovegood?" it says. "Are you all right? Miss Lovegood, please answer."

Luna holds tight to the arm of the enchanted chair and shuts her eyes tightly. "Yes, Professor," she manages to say, in what she hopes is a normal sort of voice. "I'm quite well, only I wonder if you could ask one of the house elves to bring me a change of clothes from my room?"

The speech feels awfully long, and at the end of it she is exhausted, but she stays conscious long enough to hear Snape say he will do as she asks. Five minutes later, time Luna passes by sitting in her chair and wondering if she is about to die, her smallest suitcase pops into existence at her feet; opening it, she finds three changes of clothes neatly folded and packed inside.

She dresses as quickly as she can, which is not very quickly at all; she is beginning to think she might be having a heart attack. She doesn't even try to lift the suitcase to take back with her into the bedroom. When she opens the door again she finds Snape sitting in a new armchair by the fire, near the end of the bed where Harry is napping, looking up expectantly as she floats back to her bed.

"I think, perhaps, that was a mistake," she tells Snape, as she pushes herself upright and transfers the bulk of her weight unsteadily from chair to bed.

"You didn't harm yourself, I hope?" says Snape, rising, taking half a step towards her as she slumps back against the pillows without pausing to slip beneath the covers. The bed had been made up again in her short absence.

"Not on purpose," says Luna. "But I feel...very odd."

Snape comes to stand at the side of her bed but Luna doesn't have the energy to look up at him.

"I expect our privacy to be any moment invaded," says Snape, a kind of odd question in his voice.

Luna nods. "That's why I made the floating chair," she says. "I can slip out of the room and let Harry visit with Mr and Mrs Weasley in private."

"I can give you the use of the parlor, if you wish to see your father alone."

Luna folds her hands in her lap. "The funny thing is," she says, "my father is not the sort of person who tends to notice people even when they're there."

"Including yourself?" says Snape.

Luna smiles; just to herself, but she thinks he sees it. "It varies by occasion."

"My mother was much the same."

A knot in one of the fireplace logs bursts suddenly, with a noise like a small exploding cauldron.

Drowsiness washes over Luna like a warm breeze; she leans back into the pillow and closes her eyes.

"I will wake you again when it is time for your potion," says Snape from high above her.

"And if my father comes," she says, dreamily.

Silence settles around her snowfall; and as she fades into sleep, she hears Snape's voice. "Yes," he says, in a voice that is at once mocking, resigned, and somehow strangely kind. "If your father comes."


	13. an estimated value

Snape shuts his book and lets it drop to table, sighing wearily and pinching the bridge of his nose. In almost that same instant, a knock sounds at his chamber door. He does not look up.

Snape has been sitting at his breakfast table for two woefully unproductive hours, unable to focus either on grading or on any of the rest of the paperwork that has accumulated during his absence from his teaching duties. Various distracting and unproductive thoughts assault his concentration. He has found himself thinking over the morning's conversation with Luna more often than he would admit to doing if questioned, wondering whether it would transgress the boundaries of professionalism if he were to send Xenophilus Lovegood a strongly worded message.

Of course, it would not do; he had discarded the thought immediately. But the fact that he feels the temptation is itself enough to disconcert him. It would seem that once a decades-old policy of non-interference is breached, the urge to...correct the deficiencies of his students' caregivers is become almost irresistible. He blames it on the fact that he has been forced, for political reasons, to turn a blind eye to a great deal over the course of his tenure as head of Slytherin. Not that most of his students aren't proper spoiled princes and princesses, just like their counterparts in other Houses, but there are always one or two who draw his notice for reasons that would, he imagines, escape most of the rest of the staff. To these students, he has always devoted a bit more attention; hand-holding is not his style, but a little extra tutelage in Shielding and Stunning charms goes a long way, properly applied. Apparently, however, some part of him has always wished to go that one extra step, drop a carefully chosen word in the ear of a visiting parent, let them know that they are being closely observed. No doubt it is the same part of him that remembers what his nose looked like before his father broke it the first time.

Snape blinks and passes a hand over his face, as though to clear away the cobwebs of his reverie. There are matters yet to settle, and happily, some of them belong to the realm of definite action and not to the realm of wishful thinking. Vernon Dursley, for instance, remains to be dealt with, and as yet Dumbledore has been entirely unforthcoming as to his plans in that regard. While Snape finds this infuriating, he realizes that it is entirely possible that Dumbledore is himself at a loss as to how to dispose of him. While Snape has no trouble imagining one or two appropriate means of dealing with Dursley, he yet possesses enough perspective to acknowledge that Dumbledore would be unlikely to approve of them. The real difficulty—the one that even Snape finds it difficult to face, despite his practice standing nose to nose with unpleasant truths—is that anything he or Dumbledore chooses to do to Dursley will be too little, too late. The damage he has inflicted on Harry is, if not irreparable, then near enough. If only there were more time to think, to act, to make up for the past, he would not find the thought so bitter. But there is no time now. War is brewing. There are dark clouds on the horizon and Snape is keenly aware that a time is coming when even his poor guardianship will no longer be available to Harry.

So glumly engrossed by these thoughts is Snape that a second set of louder knocks sound at his door before he remembers that he must answer it. Even then, he moves slowly.

"Good afternoon, Severus." Molly Weasley greets him with a brisk smile, stepping past him into the anteroom of his chambers. "How are you?"

"Tolerably well, thank you," Snape manages to say. "Arthur," he adds, nodding at the taller figure behind her.

"Snape." Arthur Weasley returns the greeting as he follows his wife through the door. "I understand you've been drafted into nursing."

"So it would seem," Snape replies coolly. He is aware that, in another time, he might have resented these familiarities, but now his only concern is to ensconce the Weasleys at Harry's bedside as soon as possible so that he can return to working through the problem of the boy's future. "Potter is in bed, where he is to remain, but I believe he is awake. Miss Lovegood, however, is asleep, and in dire need of rest. The hangings are drawn and I've cast moderate Silencing charms, but I must ask that you endeavor not to disturb her."

"What, Luna?" says Arthur, in an incredulous tone that matches the look of bewilderment on Molly's face. "Is she here too?"

Snape freezes; mentally, he curses Dumbledore. He had expected the Headmaster to prepare them. Indeed, he had counted on it.

"I'm afraid I have no time to explain," he extemporizes, starting for the bedroom, hoping they will take the hint and follow. "But I'm sure that Potter will be pleased to answer your questions."

Snape flings the bedroom door open with a swift motion, half in hopes of finding that Harry has flouted Madam Pomfrey's restrictions, providing Snape with an excuse to lay down the law and shake off Weasley's implication that he is any more naturally fit to be a nurse than an ill-tempered badger. Alas, he finds Harry lying obediently still, reading a Transfigurations textbook. He glances up at Snape curiously. Despite his desire to be elsewhere, Snape is oddly warmed by the fact that there is no trace of a flinch in the boy's expectant expression. Despite everything, Harry seems visibly improved, in some ineluctable but pleasing manner, by the ordeals of the past two weeks.

"You have guests, Potter," Snape announces, as the Weasleys find the door. Harry opens his mouth to speak, but Snape waves the Weasleys inside and ducks back into the corridor before he is require to witness more of Molly Weasley's maternal effusiveness than a grown man should be required to. He doesn't count Arthur; presumably the man had known what he was marrying.

Twenty minutes later, Snape hears the sound of the bedroom door opening behind him. He manages, by dint of much effort, not to start visibly or raise his wand. A week of this, and he is still unused to the incidental noises made by new people moving about in his chambers. He sits quietly, listening to heavy footsteps against the stone floor.

"Arthur," says Snape evenly. The man has wandered idly into the kitchen, passing Snape by at the table without seeming to notice him. Arthur looks up, startled, at the sound of his voice, and Snape pushes a kitchen chair back from the table with his boot. Although he makes a point of not socializing with other members of the Order, he has always had a wary regard for the elder Weasleys, Arthur in particular, who once punched Lucius Malfoy in the nose, thus gifting Snape with a mental image that will brighten his life until the day he dies.

"Severus," says Arthur, depositing himself in the chair. There is a kind of weary relief in his limbs as he slumps sideways in his chair with a sigh.

"Something to drink?" says Snape, hoping the answer will be "yes" so that he will have an excuse to pour one for himself.

"No, thanks," says Arthur. His fingers close over the carved wooden ends of the chair's arms, and he stares across the room at the fire. Snape recognizes the signs of a man working himself up to say something he would rather not; he sits quietly and waits for it to come out.

"Harry's injuries," says Arthur at last. He pauses, makes eye contact. Snape blinks acknowledgment. "Ron said something in his letter about him and Luna getting into a fight with some—some students from Slytherin. But it can't have just been that, can it."

Snape looks at the other man, realizing as he does so that, while the Headmaster had promised Harry to tell no one about the events of the past two weeks, Snape himself had given the boy no such guarantee. Would telling Arthur Weasley make matters better or worse for the boy? Snape is not sure he is in any position to decide.

"Potter was not badly hurt during yesterday's melee," Snape says carefully. "Miss Lovegood sustained the brunt of the damage."

Arthur gives him a keen look that Snape thinks he knows how to interpret, but he is not in an expansive mood; if Arthur wishes to know when Harry's name ceased to elicit instant and unthinking vitriol from Snape's tongue, he will have to inquire elsewhere.

"I'm sure something was already wrong with him when he came to us at the end of the summer," says Arthur, looking back into the fire. "Ron couldn't get him on the back of a broom for love or Galleons. And he was—quiet. Not the he isn't always, but you could see something wasn't quite right."

Snape says nothing, but Arthur appears to have made up his mind, without requiring confirmation; Snape finds himself impressed with the man's instincts. Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees.

"I knew the moment I clapped eyes on that uncle of his that sending Harry back there was a mistake," he says. "I told Dumbledore, he should have come straight to us from Hogwarts. But Dumbledore said there were reasons why he had to stay with them. And Harry wrote to us regularly." Arthur makes a helpless gesture.

"I am—given to understand," says Snape, delicately, "that his relatives inspected the letters before they were posted."

Arthur's mouth tightens in a way that heightens his resemblance to his youngest son, and he looks away for a moment.

"What's Dumbledore doing about it?" says Arthur, after a long silence.

"If you wish to know details, you must apply to the Headmaster for them." And if he tells you anything, be so kind as to share. A moment later, he adds, "He indicated to me that other arrangements would be made for Harry's accommodation this summer."

"Well," says Arthur, in a rather subdued voice. "That's something, anyway."

They sit together in silence for another minute, Snape making a show of examining the pile of student papers on the table before him. Arthur crosses his legs and stares at the rug.

"It's the thing about—living in times like these," says Arthur suddenly, startling Snape into making eye contact with him. "Makes you wonder what you were about, bringing children into the world. You like to think you can protect them—you tell yourself you will—but really..." Arthur trails off, sighing.

Snape feels himself flushing uncomfortably. "Quite," he says feebly.

Arthur looks up and flashes a sudden grin. "Sorry," he says. "Are we still pretending you can't relate? No, my mistake."

Snape stares at him, dumbfounded, but before either of them can say more the door opens and Molly Weasley steps through it.

"We should get going, dear, or we''ll be late for Hall," she says in a brisk, tight voice, as the two men get to their feet. "I want to talk with Dumbledore. At some length."

Arthur and Snape exchange knowing glances. "Right," says Arthur, taking Molly's arm in his own.

"Will we see you there, Severus?" says Molly.

"I couldn't say," says Snape, and escorts his visitors to the door, shutting it on them with no small measure of relief.

Harry lies back in his bed and stares at the ceiling, listening to the noises from the next room as Mr and Mrs Weasley take their leave and Snape shuts the door after them. Though physically he feels stronger than he has for several weeks, emotionally he feels sore and bruised and exhausted, as though he has been worked over by a gang of Death Eaters with clubs and unusually percussive Stunning spells. Mrs Weasley means well, of course, and he had been glad to see her, at least at first—but the careful, constrained way she had danced around the questions she obviously wanted to ask had made talking to her very awkward. But he didn't think that the situation would be improved by telling her things that would only upset her more, so he'd simply endured it as best he could until it was time for her to leave for lunch with Ron and Ginny.

"We'll see you again very soon, Harry," Mrs Weasley had promised on her way out of the room. Harry can see her troubled expression clearly even now that she is gone, like an afterimage burned into his eyes from staring too long at the sun.

He lies there staring up into the canopy overhead for several long minutes before the door opens again, startling him. But this time it is only Snape, arriving with their lunch and more of Luna's potions. His entrance reminds Harry that there is something he wanted to ask.

"Professor," he says to Snape's back, as the man busies himself around the room, "is it okay if I ask Ron and Hermione over for an hour after dinner?"

"While circumstances have conspired to appoint me to the role of your nurse," Snape intones dryly from the bedside table, where he is adding a drop of liquid to an open flask, "I am not yet so far abased as to aspire to the role of your social secretary."

Harry flushes. "I only meant—"

"I know what you meant." Snape works in silence for another minute, then hands the flask to Luna, who receives it with a sweet smile, and drains it with a grimace. When he has the empty flask back, he says, "I am inclined to the opinion that you have had enough visitors for one day. However, an hour or so in Miss Granger's company can only benefit your attempts to complete your missed classwork." He cocks an eyebrow. "Oh dear me, have you suddenly changed your mind?"

Harry quickly schools his expression. "No, sir."

"Then you may send word that Miss Granger and Mr Weasley are welcome here at eight o'clock. I will," he clears his throat, "no doubt be much occupied with work in my office at that time, but they may remain until curfew."

"Thank you, professor," said Harry. He twists his head to one side on the pillow and looks over at Luna. "Is that okay, Luna? Ron and Hermione stopping by?"

"Oh, yes," says Luna promptly. "I've been sleeping so much, even my dreams have become boring."

Harry bites down hard on the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. Snape's expression is as severe as ever, but for just a moment Harry is sure he sees the corner of his lip twitch.

"Is it nice weather today?" he says, to change the topic. "I feel like it's been months since I was outside."

Snape gives a small, unconcerned shrug. "You will have to inquire elsewhere for that information. I rarely stir out of doors without reason. And since the start of Quidditch has been postponed until the Gryffindor captain can again move under his own power..."

"Oh." Harry blinks. Funny, in the last few days he's hardly thought of Quidditch. Worry cramps in his stomach. "Am—am I going to be able to play this year?"

"So long as you continue to do as you are told, there is no reason why you shouldn't return to normal activity in a week or so." Snape hesitates, as though on the very of saying something else, then shuts his mouth again and looks away. Harry follows the train of his gaze and realizes that he must be wondering whether the same will be true for Luna.

Harry is struck by a memory, suddenly: Luna, kneeling where she had been knocked down in the corridor outside the Great Hall, examining her reddened palms, gathering up her scattered books. Her hair had hung wildly around her face, bright gold in the early morning sunlight filtering down from the slatted windows overhead. Here in Snape's dim lantern-lit dungeon chambers, Luna looks white, and her hair is tangled around her face like a basket of Easter straw. He feels a sudden, fierce stab of renewed anger toward everyone responsible for hurting her—including himself.

"Professor." Harry speaks slowly, an idea dawning as fast as he can come up with the words to articulate it. "Couldn't we—I mean, is there any way—"

Snape glanced over at him, an eyebrow arched. "Any way what, Potter?"

"Could we go outside for a little while? Just for an hour. Or less than an hour, I don't care. I know we're not supposed to be up and about," he adds hastily, in answer to Snape's increasingly sardonic look, "but—don't wizards have wheelchairs, or something?"

Before the words are even out of his mouth, Harry knows what Snape will have to say about this plan, but it is derailed in the next moment when Luna cries out, delighted.

"Oh, yes, that would be so lovely," she says, two bright spots high on her cheeks flushing with color. "And I'm sure the Hover Charm I used on the armchair would do as well for something sturdier."

Snape's expression softens immediately to something less ironic, though not precisely resigned. "It would involve a great deal of trouble for no real purpose," he says, directing his reply to Harry.

"It would cheer us up," says Harry brightly, undaunted. "And Madam Pomfrey always says that people heal faster when they're cheerful."

"We could have a picnic!" Luna exclaims.

"Of course," says Snape, less mockingly, perhaps, than he would sound if he were speaking to Harry, but still with a bite. "And if you cripple yourselves permanently, you will have the comfort of knowing it was in a good cause."

"Oh yes," breathes Luna, immune, as usual, to Snape's sarcasm. "Sunshine is an excellent cause."

Snape covers his face with one long, pale hand in an eloquent expression of exasperation. Harry glances at Luna. She meets his eye and winks at him, before Snape can see. Harry's mouth falls open; a second later he is digging his fingers in the mattress to keep from laughing out loud.

Finally, Snape speaks again, his voice grudging. "Potter's undoubted medical expertise notwithstanding," he tells them, bending toward the fireplace, "I shall refer the matter to Madam Pomfrey."

But if Snape had hoped that Madam Pomfrey would save him the awkwardness of refusing their request, he was disappointed. She approves Luna's notion freely and enthusiastically, and puts herself in charge of organizing the effort that eventually carries them both out on divans to sit in Professor Sprout's gardens. Harry half expects Snape to throw his hands up and leave them to it, but instead he follows them. When Madam Pomfrey's assistants position their beds on a section of gravel walkway, he conjures a stool and positions it between them, pulling a book from an inside vest pocket with the air of setting in for a tedious interlude.

Harry has never seen this area of the gardens before, though undoubtedly Neville would have seen them. The place they are in is walled off, draped in clinging vines (though not, he determines with a nervous look around him, any Devil's Snare). Though no flowers are growing nearby, their fragrance suffuses the place, and from the bottom of one particular dense plot there wafts a rich, spiced, earthy smell that Harry identifies instantly.

"Does Professor Sprout grow tomatoes?" he asks, surprised.

Snape arches an eyebrow at him over the top of his book. "Did you imagine that the house elves go to market for the several hundred bushels of fresh produce Hogwarts consumes per week?" he inquired dryly.

"I never thought about it, honestly," says Harry. Even though the air is cool and pleasant, the sun is still high overhead, and it feels more like summer than the rapidly approaching autumn. He wants to enjoy his time outside, but the breeze washing over him is like some diabolically efficient sleeping gas. "I used to grow tomatoes," he continues absently. "Well, technically my aunt Petunia grows them, but I'm usually the one who plants them. And waters them. And weeds them, and picks the beetles off them." He inhales deeply. "It's a nice smell."

"Are they any good?" says Snape, regarding him with an amused twist to his mouth.

"What, the tomatoes? Yeah, Aunt Petunia wins prizes for them. Well, she used to. To be honest, when I was a kid I think I was doing accidental magic to keep the beetles off. Seemed like all I had to do was stare really hard and they just disappeared. I figured I was scaring them away."

He glances over at Snape toward the end of this speech. He's not sure what to make of the expression on his face—it's some sort of cross between amused and incredulous. Harry flushes, then grins back. "I bet the Daily Prophet would set up your retirement if you told them about that," he says. Snape snorts amused agreement, then looks back down at his book.

Harry has a book as well, but he can't make himself concentrate on it just yet. Instead, he looks around him, and catches sight of Luna, who, shortly after being deposited in the garden, had drifted off to sleep with a smile on her face and the sunlight in her hair. Reflexively, Harry smiles too. Then, just as quickly, the smile fades, as he recalls what he had wanted to ask an hour ago, in Snape's chambers.

"Is Luna going to be okay?" he says quietly. "I know before you said she would be, but today you seem worried."

Snape is silent for a long moment, but he looks up from his book to glance at Luna.

"She is not regaining strength as quickly as I would like," he admits eventually. "She will be well in time, so long as she does not succumb to an infection. It is a particular danger, in her state."

Harry can't think what to say to this; in any case, it would be hard to speak around the twisting in his throat.

"I intended to suggest to her father that she might benefit from a week of rest at home," Snape continues. "But as he declined to make an appearance this morning, I am unsure how to proceed."

"Doesn't her dad know what happened?" Harry asks, forcing himself to remain still. His instinct had been to sit up straight and yell, but the twinge of pain that blossoms in his back when he tenses his shoulders tells him that this would be unwise.

"I know that the Headmaster wrote to him," says Snape. "I suppose it is possible that circumstances conspired to prevent him from receiving the letter." The tone of his voice indicates to Harry that he has a different idea of what probably happened.

"So he just...skived off, then?" Harry guesses.

Snape does not answer immediately. Rather, he turns to look at Harry, with an expression that makes Harry want to take cover behind the nearest shrub.

"What?" says Snape, in a voice of mock incredulity. "Do you take exception to his behavior?"

Harry looks at him, incredulous. "Well, yeah!" he blusters. "Luna's hurt. Her father should be here!"

"I beg your pardon." Snape's expression converts to one of determined nonchalance. "I was under the impression that you didn't feel adults owed anything in the way of decent behavior to children in their care."

Harry stares at Snape for a few seconds, unable to form a coherent thought. He feels the blood rush to his face. He starts to say one thing, then another.

"It's not the same thing," he manages at last.

He is unprepared for the ferocity in Snape's eyes, in his voice, as the older man turns on him, seething.

"It is precisely the same thing," Snape tells him, his voice low and intense. "This is what you must understand. There is no difference, in my mind, between you and Luna." Harry's eyes widen; it is the first time he has heard Snape refer to Luna by her given name. "Examine the anger you feel toward Luna's father for abandoning her in her present condition. Imagine what you would feel if, in addition to this neglect, he had beaten and starved her—worked her fingers to the bone and shut her up in a cupboard." Snape's voice is cold and clipped, a startling counterpoint to the violence in his expression. "Imagine what you would feel in those circumstance—multiply it by a thousand—you would still only just begin to understand the depth of what I feel toward Vernon Dursley for what he has done to you."

A silence falls between them at the end of Snape's speech that Harry cannot bring himself to interrupt for a long time. A bird in the branches of the tree over his heard bursts from his hiding place in a flurry of wings and chirping. Harry cranes his head to watch it fly off, then returns to staring vacantly into the middle distance, his face burning, his thoughts racing.

At length, when he feels able, he clears his throat.

"Doesn't it make a difference to you," he says, "that Luna is a girl? And that she's—well, you know. Luna?"

"Naturally," says Snape. Harry looks at him, surprised. He had expected Snape to deny any such feelings. "Just as it makes a difference to me that when Dursley took you in, you were an infant." Snape turns his head and looks down at Harry, who is abruptly sorry that he raised the subject at all.

"If you had been raised in the normal manner," Snape continues, "Dursley could walk up to you this moment and strike you full across the face, and I would feel mild consternation at the most. I would not need to feel outrage on your behalf. You would, I daresay, question his right to treat you with such disrespect. But he raised you to regard yourself as—expendable. And that is a vulnerability with which Luna's delicacy and antic disposition cannot begin to compete."

"If he tried to hit me now, I'd stop him," says Harry.

"Indeed?" Snape lets the book rest in his lap, a finger marking his place.

"I mean it." Harry flushes, conscious of Snape's skepticism. "It was different the other day. I wasn't expecting him, and I was still—sort of funny in the head from that potion. I wasn't sure he wasn't just a bad dream till he had his hands round my throat."

"Heaven knows I have no wish to disbelieve you," Snape says.

"But you do," Harry finishes for him.

Snape does not answer, but his silence says everything.

Several long minutes pass. Snape returns to his book; eventually, Harry does as well. He's been taking advantage of all the time he's been stuck in bed to work his way through the set of Defense books Sirius and Remus gave him last Christmas, and for the most part it's been fast, interesting reading, but the volume he's on now covers complex, ritualistic counter-curses—wards and geases and other words Harry doesn't know how to pronounce. It's heavy going, and he's having a hard time focusing on it properly; his mind is still mostly on the dramatic scenario Snape had painted with words a moment before. Harry finds himself imagining it: Uncle Vernon rounding the garden wall, advancing on him in a cartoonish puff of angry steam, arms outstretched, fingers grasping. It makes him think of Homer chasing Bart on an episode of The Simpsons. Harry chokes back laughter. Snape might have had one foot in the Muggle world when he was in school, but Harry is feels sure that trying to explain the humor in this situation would only make Snape worry about him more.

Still, Harry wonders what he would do. "Is my uncle still in the castle?" he wonders aloud, glancing sidelong at Snape.

If he hadn't spent the last week or so in close quarters with the man, Harry would probably never notice the way in which Snape stiffens, ever so slightly, before answering. "I believe the Headmaster has him yet secreted in some select bolt-hole, yes," he says, in a careful, casual tone. "If you wish any more particular information than that, you must apply to Professor Dumbledore for it."

"Do you know what he plans to do with him?" Harry asks tentatively.

"I do not," says Snape, and Harry is surprised to hear nothing in his voice save weariness. "I wish that I did. I might find sleep a bit easier to come by."

Harry continues to look at him for a minute, though he has not looked up from his book. Then, more confused than before, he returns to his book with new determination.

The next time he looks up, the hour has slipped away, and Madam Pomfrey's assistants have returned to take them back to the castle. Harry keeps his eyes trained on the back of Snape's head as he takes his place at the front of the procession, and wonders to himself what he looks like in Snape's mind, whether his likeness there is etched in stone or whether there is still room to create himself more like the person he wishes to be.


	14. with love, part one

22 September 1996

Snape goes to fetch the next dose of Blood-Replenishing Potion while Pomfrey's assistants take the children back to his-to their-no, damn it, his quarters, and help Luna back into bed. He waits until they depart, then carries the bottle silently over to Luna's side of the room. When she reaches it for it, he is gratified to see that her hands are steadier than they were a day ago. Furthermore, he is bound to admit that there are roses in her cheeks, where this morning her face was a study in unhealthy pallor.

Luna drains the potion and hands the bottle back to him, catching his eye as she does so and smiling, as though she has sensed the trend of his thoughts and is unable to help triumphing gently at his expense.

"It is lovely weather, this time of year," she says. "I love the end of summer, when you never know if it will be cool or warm."

"Don't imagine that we will be making a habit of these excursions," Snape warns as he takes her wrist between his fingers to check her pulse.

Luna watches him quietly until he has finished. "I wrote a letter to my father this morning," she tells him, as he makes a notation for Pomfrey on her chart. "Will you ask someone to take it to the Owlery for me, please?"

Snape glances down. She's holding the letter out to him, a piece of pale blue stationery of good quality. His brow furrows irritably; he has had enough of letters in the last week. "You're not meant to be cultivating your correspondence. You're meant to be resting."

"And now that I've written to my father, I shall be able to," Luna returns, undisturbed.

Snape's nostrils flare. He pinches the paper between thumb and forefinger, and tucks it into the sleeve of his robes. He tries to avoid Luna's gaze as he does so; she is not an appropriate target for his irritation with her father, or with Vernon Dursley, or the world in general.

"I know what you're thinking," she says, as he puts the letter away. "But he is my father, and I love him. He wouldn't hurt me on purpose. Sometimes he just needs reminding."

"Of what, precisely?" Snape asks, with a curl of his lip.

Luna thinks a moment, as though the matter requires careful and precise articulation. "He needs to be reminded sometimes that there's a world outside his head," she says finally.

Snape feels at once that her characterization of Xenophilus Lovegood is accurate, as well as just, and that it makes him into less of a cad than Snape had thought him. This only serves to increase his irritation; he doesn't wish to invest his energy analyzing the moral nuances of Lovegood's behavior when it is simpler to have an emotional reaction to Luna's unhappiness.

"He is lucky to have you for a daughter," is the only part of this that Snape expresses aloud.

He leaves the room with the letter and the empty potions bottle, casting a glance at Harry on his way out. The boy is peering intently at the pages of a thick spellbook-not a textbook, Snape determines with a more attentive glance at the title, but one in a series of popular handbooks on defensive spells. He is more engrossed than Snape has ever seen him while reading. Poor little bastard-finally gone mad with the boredom, Snape thinks to himself as he shuts the door behind him.

Alone in the antechamber, Snape glances around him for the next thing to do, and finds that for the first time in days the sickroom has no claim on his attention. It will be hours until Luna is due for her next dose of the potion, and he has enough ready made to last for days. And Harry is safe, content and occupied. Snape has enough magical safeguards on his chambers to keep out-well, not Voldemort, perhaps, or Dumbledore, but certainly anyone else-Vernon Dursley, for instance. For the first time in days, Snape feels confident enough to leave his quarters and make his way to his office, where a stack of unmarked papers is, no doubt, breeding and multiplying in the darkness. He locks the door carefully behind him and walks down one flight of stairs and down half a corridor to his office, where he settles in behind his desk with all the satisfaction of a traveler returned home after a long and difficult journey abroad.

Ten minutes of this peace is all he is to experience, however. He has just stopped to sharpen his quill for the first time when the flames in the fireplace expand with a whoosh, and a piece of paper flutters down from the chimney onto his floor, accompanied by a scattering of ash. Snape rises immediately and steps around the end of his desk to retrieve the paper. He recognizes Dumbledore's handwriting at a glance.

The note is short, peremptory. Please come at once, is all it says, followed by Dumbledore's initials.

Snape only pauses long enough to seize his robe from the hook behind his desk and throw it over his shirtsleeves, leaving his coat on the back of his chair where he'd shrugged out of it earlier. He steps around the end of the desk, grabs a handful of Floo powder, and dashes it into the fire all in one fluid movement. Moments later he is stumbling onto the floor of the Headmaster's office, searching Dumbledore out with his eyes.

Snape finds him behind his desk, looking grave and weary, with a strange expression settled over his features. He looks like a man whose eyes are fixed inward, so much so that Snape is almost certain he has not noticed his arrival.

"Headmaster," says Snape, taking half a step forward. Then he notices the presence of a third man in the room, and stops.

The Auror, Dawlish, meets his eyes and nods to him. Snape, whose hand has clenched around his wand automatically at the sight of him, relaxes only fractionally at this overture. He has not lived the sort of life calculated to put him at ease in the presence of the police, be they wizard or Muggle. Dawlish's wary, sardonic look seems to take all this in, without being offended by it.

"Thank you for coming promptly, Severus," says Dumbledore then, startling him. "I won't waste your time. Dawlish, would you please tell Professor Snape what you have just told me?"

Dawlish clears his throat, sounding awkward. "Two days ago, the Magical Law Enforcement Division in Sussex found the body of a wizard near Ottery St Catchpole. Badly disfigured-unrecognizable. Forensics just returned the results of the diganostic spells this morning." Dawlish hesitates. "His next of kin's a Hogwarts student, so we thought right to bring it to Dumbledore."

"Who?" says Snape, though he is certain he knows the answer already.

"Xenophilius Lovegood," says Dawlish.

Snape feels a strange, prickling heat spread up his collar and over his face. It is fully half a minute before he can make himself speak.

"It is quite certain, I suppose?" he says.

"I'm afraid so," says Dawlish. His hand moves to the breast pocket of his trench coat, hesitates, then reaches inside. "I may as well ask you, as I'm asking everyone. Does this symbol mean anything to you?"

The curiously shaped ornament that Dawlish dangles from the end of a fine gold chain resembles an eye within a triangle, bisected by a straight line.

"I suppose you weren't much acquainted with Lovegood," Dawlish continues, "but Professor Dumbledore says that you know the daughter, so I thought maybe she'd mentioned something."

Snape resists the desire to shudder bodily, as light flashes against gold, and the great eye at the center of Grindelwald's sigil seems to blink at him conspiratorially. With an effort, Snape tears his gaze from the emblem, and glances at Dumbledore. The Headmaster continues to sit like a gargoyle behind his desk, impassive, uncommunicative, and silent.

"I'm afraid not," says Snape, and to his relief Dawlish merely shrugs and tucks the thing back into his pocket.

"Dumbledore tells me the girl's too ill to answer questions at present," Dawlish says. "I'll check back in a couple of days to see if she's any better."

"Of course," says Snape mechanically. "Is it known who-?"

"The investigation is ongoing." The expression in Dawlish's face winks out like a snuffed candle. "I'll be on my way now. Thanks for your time. Professor Dumbledore." He nods at the Headmaster, then steps into the Floo and vanishes in a puff of green smoke.

The office is silent in his absence. Snape continues to stand before the Headmaster's desk, like an errant pupil called forward to account for his failings. Which is a fair description of how he feels.

"I had no intelligence of this," he says at last, surprised by the rough sound of his own voice. "This week, I have been-distracted. Neglectful," he feels forced to add.

Dumbledore stirs at last, as though this last pejorative were the so-called magic word from a Muggle faerie tale. "No," he says, and Snape is relieved to find that he sounds like himself, despite his stricken look. "I do not believe there would have been any warning this time. I believe that this was my doing. The failure of my cleverness." There is a note of bitterness in this last that Snape finds disturbing, and he peers closely at Dumbledore over the desk.

"Why did you not tell Dawlish what that trinket of his meant?" he asked. "Was it left upon the body?"

"It was found-" Dumbledore stops. "Xenophilius was clutching it when he died. He often wore it around his neck. He was-not fully acquainted with its history."

"If there had been a raid-I may not have been informed through the, the usual channels, but if the Dark Mark had been seen in Sussex-"

"I do not believe it was a raid."

Snape stares at him. "Are you saying that you do not believe Death Eaters were responsible?"

"I have no doubt that Xenophilius was murdered on Voldemort's orders, but I believe they were after more than-the usual."

Snape waits, and after a moment Dumbledore looks up at him and gives a smile and a small shake of the head, looking so much more like himself all of a sudden that Snape is less perturbed than he might otherwise be when Dumbledore's next words are less informative than he would have wished.

"Please excuse me for the moment, Severus," he says, sounding tired again. "I cannot be explicit yet. I must think things over first." He rises suddenly, and his voice changes again. "In any case, now is not the time for you and I to mull our intrigues. We must go to Miss Lovegood."

"Shall I call Flitwick?" Snape asks.

Dumbledore seems to hesitate, then shakes his head. "Not yet. I must tell her myself. She will have questions that only I can answer." He pauses again, then adds, more quietly: "I owe it to her."

Relieved at this-he had been on the verge of offering to break the news to Luna himself-Snape follows Dumbledore silently to the fireplace. They Floo together to Snape's quarters, and once there, Snape turns to Dumbledore and murmurs, "Perhaps Potter should be moved for the time being?"

"If you think he is well enough, perhaps that would be for the best," Dumbledore says.

Snape strides ahead of him, raps twice on the door, and enters. The children look up; Luna greets him with a smile, Harry with a blink over the top of the same book he was reading that morning.

Snape stands there, looking at them, and finds himself struck dumb. The silence continues for so long that Luna begins to look at him gravely, and Harry says, "What's wrong, Professor?"

Harry's question galvanizes him. "I need to see you in the parlor, Potter," Snape tells him. "I believe you are recovered enough to walk a few steps, but if you feel too unwell, Madam Pomfrey left a stretcher-"

"I can walk," says Harry immediately. Snape watches him closely as he pushes back the blanket and swings his legs over the side of the bed and is gratified to observe that, though the boy goes carefully, there is no undue stiffness in his movements.

As Harry passes him in the doorway, Snape looks back at Luna. "We will be just outside," he tells her. Then he steps into the parlor and nods at Dumbledore, who walks past him into the bedroom. Snape watches the door shut behind him mutely, then turns to Harry, who is standing before the fireplace, looking at him strangely.

"What's going on?" he says in a sharp tone that Snape recognizes. The boy has an allergy to being kept in the dark that Snape shares.

"The Headmaster wishes to speak privately with Luna," Snape tells him. He discovers in his own voice the same heaviness he heard in Dumbledore's earlier. "It doesn't concern you."

"Is she alright?" Harry says, his tone changing in an instant from combative to worried. Snape looks up at him, and immediately realizes what he must be thinking.

"It does not concern her health," he told Harry, and the boy's feature's instantly relax. "Now sit down before you fall down."

As Harry obeys him and folds himself into an armchair, Snape sinks onto one of the straight-backed wooden chairs at the kitchen table and rests his head, for a moment, in the palm of his hand. As he does so, he hears a rustling in the sleeve of his robe. A second later, he remembers the letter that Luna had given him to post.

There is no envelope, only a faint sealing charm that doesn't resist the pressure of his fingers as he tears it open. A small voice at the back of his mind suggests that this is a violation of Luna's privacy, but he doesn't pause. She'd known, after all, in whom she was placing her trust.

Hi Dad , the letter begins.

How's work? I've had a very pleasant morning so I thought I'd make it even better by writing to see how you are, and to let you know that I'm recovering very nicely and feeling much stronger. Also, I thought you'd be interested to know that Professor Snape has been looking after Harry and me, and I've seen quite a lot of him, and I am in a position to state for certain that he can't be a vampire. Sorry. I didn't have a chance to observe him at the Solstice, however, so I guess there's still a chance he's Cantankerous Bavarian Therianthrope. I'll do what I can at the Equinox.

I hope that all is well with you. If you have a chance, I'd like to see you very much. (I'm really very well, but I do get bored lying in bed all day.) Give my love to Jasper, and tell him to remind you to write back.

Love, Luna

Snape lets the paper flutter to the surface of the table and looks away, blinking hard.

"Professor." Snape looks up; Harry is standing by the table, looking down at him. "What's wrong?

Snape can feel exhaustion crashing over him in waves-spiritual, rather than physical, if he were to admit that he possessed such a thing as a soul. Curtly, he indicates the second chair, and Harry pulls it back from the table, seating himself cautiously.

"The Headmaster received some news this afternoon," he tells him.

Dumbledore tries to smile at Luna from the doorway, but finds that his mouth will not hold the shape. Wizards do not age like Muggles, but he is, by anyone's standards, a very old man, and lately he has been feeling it. Cold seems to creep up from the stone floor through his shoes, into his marrow. Each step he takes towards Luna's bedside rattles his entire frame, until his bones feel as easily shattered as kindling. And yet, looking down at the wan girl in the bed, he is reminded that of the two of them, he is still by far the stronger. It gives him new perspective.

"Good afternoon," he says.

"Good afternoon, Professor," says Luna, gazing up at him with a steady, serious gaze that seems to take in every blink of his eye and every twitch of his lip.

"I should ask how you are feeling," he says, "but I understand from Madam Pomfrey that you spent an hour in the gardens, from which I infer that you are better than you were a few days ago."

"Yes, thank you," says Luna. "I do feel better." There is a degree of trepidation in her voice that he finds unsettling, as though she senses that he has come on purpose to give her terrible news. He wonders, not for the first time, if she doesn't possess greater divinatory powers than the woman he pays to teach the subject, or whether she has known, better than the rest of them, that her father's absence is not what it seems.

"I shall sit down, if you don't mind." Dumbledore lowers himself into an armchair beside Luna's bed. He regards her steadily for a moment, but just as he draws breath to begin, she speaks, stealing the air from his lungs.

"It's my father, isn't it." She pushes herself up one one arm, the better to face him. "Something's happened to him."

The terrible certainty in her voice makes him want to deny it reflexively. Her whole body is shuddering with the effort of keeping herself upright. He wants to make her lie down again-she's in pain, and the movement clearly exacerbates it. But he knows better than anyone that uncertainty is the worse pain by far.

"Yes," he says at last. "I am sorry, Luna. He is dead."

Luna sinks back onto the pillows as swiftly as though he had cast a Spine-softening Hex upon her.

"How?" she asks, after a long moment's silence.

Again, he hesitates. But the hesitation is for his sake, not hers. He suspects that Luna is that rarest kind of person, one who cannot be comforted by anything but the truth. So Dumbledore tells her everything, simply and slowly, beginning with Dawlish's arrival at Hogwarts that morning. Luna neither speaks nor looks at him while he is talking, and she doesn't say anything for a long time after he finishes.

After half a minute of silence, he takes a deep breath and forces himself to add the part that comes next.

"I must confess to you," he says, wondering if the self-recrimination in his voice is as apparent to her as it is to him, "that I do not believe Voldemort would have targeted your father in this manner, at this time, if I-if not for a trail of false information that I laid in the hopes of delaying Voldemort's attempts to acquire certain information." Her clear blue gaze becomes steely for an instant; Dumbledore wets his lips and continues. "I did not intend that path should lead to your father's door, but I believe that I would have anticipated the possibility that it might, if—if my mind had not been distracted. I beg your forgiveness, Luna. I have been short-sighted-" he recalls Severus' word from before, "and negligent, and you and your father have paid the price."

At this last, Luna tears her eyes away from him and gazes at the ceiling. Her mouth twists; she covers it with her hand. Dumbledore studies her face for as long as he can bear to.

"Did it do any good?" she says at last, in a voice as thin and raspy as onionskin.

"I'm sorry?"

"Did it fool Voldemort? Will it help to stop him?"

Again, a reply rises readily to his lips. Yes, he could say, and gift Luna with the small comfort of believing that her father's death had served some purpose. But it isn't the truth, and again he finds that, for Luna, only the truth will do.

"I don't know," he tells her, and, strangely, some of the tension leaves her face, as though she's released a breath she was holding. He finds himself wondering if the question had been some kind of test, and if so, whether he had passed it.

He has now said everything he intended to say to her when he walked into the room, but he finds that he doesn't know how to take leave of her. Molly Weasley is still in the castle; he had intended to delegate Luna's care to her when he left. But looking down at Luna now, he realizes that Molly's company, however sympathetic, is not suited to comfort Luna's quiet, contained devastation.

Luna doesn't look anything like Ariana, not really, but Dumbledore has always seen a glimmer of the lost little sister whom he failed in Luna's far-sighted eyes. And he owes her, in ways he can't possibly explain to her, for the comfort she will give him in the darkest moment of his own distant youth.

"I will not commit the impertinence of telling you that I know how you feel," he says quietly, when the silence between them has stretched out so long that he begins to suspect Luna has quite forgotten his presence. "But I lost both my parents and my sister when I was your age." That he had killed his sister and driven his brother away, he does not see fit to mention; his own sordid history has no place here. "On those grounds, I may claim to understand some small part of what you will have to endure. I only wish to assure you that you have friends who will not abandon you. And that I-" He hesitates, then discards the hesitation as foolish. "That I hold myself among them."

Luna says something then in a voice so low that Dumbledore does not hear her. "I beg your pardon," he says, and leans nearer to the bed.

"I," says Luna, then she stops and swallows. Dumbledore spots a glass of water on the bedside table and holds it to her lips. She drinks from it, then lies back against the pillow again.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now," she says.

"That is easily answered," says Dumbledore, relieved. Here is firm ground; in an instant, he is again the Headmaster of Hogwarts. "For the present, at least, you are to rest, and drink the potions Professor Snape gives you, and obey Madam Pomfrey's orders. After that-we will revisit the question when you are well and strong."

Luna blinks, then looks at him. "Does Professor Snape know?" she asks.

The question takes Dumbledore by surprise for a moment, but he nods. This seems to satisfy the momentary welling of her curiosity. Her head lolls to the side, leaving her to gaze at the wall. Dumbledore suspects she hasn't the energy to look at anything else.

"I will ask Professor Snape to check on you in a few minutes," Dumbledore tells her, rising from his chair. And though she neither speaks at him nor looks at him, he stands over her bed for a moment, then leans forward and catches the small, pale hand up in his own, and his fingers tighten around hers, the nearest he can come to gathering her into his arms like a child. And though he may only be imagining it, he believes that, just for an instant, he can feel her return the pressure, as though to assure him that despite his great failings, he has not ruined her forever. He knows very well that it would be like her.

He closes the door of the bedroom behind him gently and steps out into the larger room. Snape rises from the table and looks at him expectantly; Harry, Dumbledore notes, looks as though he would like to do the same, but has been ordered not to make any unnecessary movements.

"How is she?" Snape says, and there is a demanding note in his voice that Dumbledore is not accustomed to hearing directed at him. Were he not preoccupied by heavier thoughts, he would find the keenness of Snape's interest in Luna's well-being interesting. He files it away for a quieter moment, when he is in need of solace.

"I should give her a few minutes to herself," Dumbledore tells him. "Afterwards, you will, of course, want to check on her."

In Harry's face, he sees both distress and a strange lack of curiosity. But Harry, of course, knows better than most how Luna feels at this moment, how far she is beyond the reach of any help or sympathy they could give her.

Dumbledore wonders for a moment if Harry isn't the one who would benefit most from close attention just now. There is a hard brilliance in his eyes that makes Dumbledore wonder if the death of Luna's father hasn't triggered unpleasant memories for him. Sirius's death is still fresh and raw in his own mind, and he can't imagine it would be less so in Harry's. But, studying his face more closely, Dumbledore decides that the look he's seeing is not a sign that Harry is overwhelmed by painful memories. The light in his eyes is more stable than that. Dumbledore begins to wonder if it isn't something like resolve.

Despite everything, Dumbledore's heart lifts. He closes his eyes for a second, and opens them again to look at the two people in whom he has invested all his hopes for the future. Snape and Harry look back at him, silent, waiting, as though expecting Dumbledore to tell them what to do. As though he hasn't already placed the whole world in their hands, and his heart with it.

23-30 September

The rest of the week passes strangely for Harry. Slowly at first,then more rapidly, he is gaining strength. It no longer hurts every time he tries to sit, stand, or bend over, and he no longer drifts into deep sleep whenever he shuts his eyes for more than a few seconds. He's getting restless, and badly wants to be out of bed. But Snape and Madam Pomfrey unite to insist that he keep to his bed until the following Monday, at which point, if he passes Madam Pomfrey's examination, he will be permitted to return to "normal, light activity" which means no Quidditch yet, and casting a featherweight charm on his books so he doesn't strain something hauling them around.

Early in the week, Harry passes the time finishing up all the homework he's missed. When that is done, he goes back to the book he's been reading off and on over the course of his whole convalescence, one of the Defense Against the Dark Arts texts that Remus and Sirius had given him for Christmas last year. He spends most of each day reading-and not just because it was easier to sneak peeks at Luna that way without being obvious.

Luna . Harry glances over the top of the book and finds her just as she was five minutes ago, lying motionless on the bed, her eyes fixed on nothing. She looks like a princess in a Muggle faerie tale, which makes Harry realize for the first time just how macabre those stories really are-all those dead and comatose girls in pretty frocks. Luna doesn't seem to be sleeping that much, but she hasn't spoken a word to anyone since the day Dumbledore came to tell her that her father had been murdered. She's had lots of visitors-Mrs Weasley, Dumbledore, Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, Vector, and Trelawney, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, all the other fifth year Ravenclaw girls, and even Snape has taken to spending more time in the room, addressing comments to the room generally, as though hoping to spark a reaction. So far, all Luna has ever done is smile, nod, and shake her head. Mostly she seems not to notice other people, and she hasn't opened her mouth except to sigh or swallow potions in almost a week.

Every time Harry looks at Luna, he feels a stab of anger so sharp and hot that it is all he can do to sit still.

"They're just going to keep killing people till someone stops them," Harry had fumed to Ginny, one day when Luna was away being checked over at St. Mungo's. "They don't care. They're not thinking, 'This is someone's mum or dad I've killed, someone's kid, what's going to happen to the people who love them?' They don't care about anything except stuff that doesn't do anyone any good."

Ginny had listened to him for as long as her patience held out. "Yes, it's maddening," she'd finally said in a loud voice, speaking right over him, "but what good is it fuming? You know we've got to fight them, so while you've got all this time stuck lying flat on your back you should be learning things that will make you better at it." And she had thrown one of the Defense books almost (but not quite) at his head.

Ever since then Harry has been reading practically every waking minute. The first two volumes had been easy going—plenty of diagrams and illustrations and short, clear descriptions of incantations and wand movements for various defensive spells and counter-curses. The one he's on now, though, is all long-winded descriptions of obscure, complicated rituals. If Harry weren't so determined to get through all of it, he would have been sorely tempted to skip ahead.

At the back of the book there is an alphabetical index of spells. From time to time, just to break up the tedium, he consults it and flips ahead a few pages to read about some counter-curse or protective spell that sounds particularly interesting, or horrible—the enfans blesse, for instance, which discourages kidnapping by enchanting a baby's crib to look as though the baby has been eaten by wild animals. His interest is strictly general, however, until his eye falls on a short entry near the middle of the list.

Kinslayer's Aegis: Level III blood-based restrictive geas (obsolete). One of the few verifiable surviving spells from the age of Merlin, the Kinslayer's Aegis is believed to have its roots in deep antiquity; it is used to control the behavior of near relations with respect to children or other dependents. The spell is thought to have been a last resort of parents in wartime who were forced to send their children out of harm's way with family they did not know or trust. Using Vanderbeest's principle of arithmantic reciprocity, triangulation occurs at 2:1 with a tertiary or nearer blood or marital relation. Note: there have been fewer than 20 known successful uses this century.

Afterwards, Harry won't be able to remember the moment in his reading when revelation dawned on him and resolution formed. He will remember that when he reads the description of the spell for the first time, nothing about it struck him as more significant than anything else he'd read that morning. He will only remember how one phrase from the passage stayed with him; how at various points throughout the rest of his day he recalled the look of the words as they were printed on the page, "controls the behavior of near relations" over and over again until the individual words began to lose meaning, having no idea of what they would mean to him later, when the entire world had changed.

1 October

"You're going, then?" comes the question from the doorway.

It's six in the morning, and Harry is sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging his socks and shoes on. This is the first time he's worn shoes in almost a week now and it shocks him a bit at first to find that they fit, until he remembers how Snape shrunk them for him. He's getting ready for his first day back in class in almost two weeks, Madam Pomfrey having given him the all-clear yesterday evening. His things will be packed in his absence by the house-elves, who will send them back to Gryffindor Tower. Once he walks out the door this morning, Snape's rooms will again be as forbidden to him as they are to any other student. Well, except for Luna, still silent in her bed against the far wall.

"Yes sir, I think I'd better," says Harry, straightening up again, determined not to betray any stiffness. "I can't afford to get much farther behind."

"Quite." Snape's tone is difficult to read; there's a studied neutrality to his tone that Harry can't interpret.

Harry ties his necktie and glances around him to be sure he hasn't forgotten anything. On the other side of the room, just visible through the half-open bed curtains, Luna seems to stir, then subside again into eerie stillness.

"Sir," says Harry, still working on his tie, "I wonder, would it be all right-that is, while Luna's still down here, may I come and visit?"

"Honestly, Potter, did Petunia teach you nothing? Watch and learn." Snape reaches for his throat. Harry blinks. Snape begins to undo and then re-tie his necktie, his fingers moving faster than Harry can follow. "Yes, you may visit."

"Right," Harry says, unaccountably happy to hear this. "Thanks, sir."

"Your schoolbag?" says Snape, prodding the old canvas rucksack on the bed behind him with an air of distaste.

"Yes, sir."

Snape picks it up by the strap and holds it out in front of him, as though testing the weight. Then he takes out his wand, levels it at the bag, and mutters an incantation too low for Harry to hear. Then he hands it back to Harry, who takes it and nearly falls over when he's not tugged forward by the expected weight.

"Thanks, sir," says Harry, grinning and slinging the bag onto his shoulder. "I'm not very good at featherweight charms."

"You astonish me." Snape's tone is very dry. "Well then, you had-better be on your way, hadn't you."

To Harry, Snape sounds awkward, as though he is waiting for one them to say something that neither of them are saying. Harry hoists his bag another few inches up his shoulder and, after a moment of feeling rather awkward himself, sticks out his hand.

"Thank you, sir," he says. "For-for everything."

It is much less than what he feels, but it is much more than he would ever have been able to say a few weeks ago. Besides, he suspects Snape might actually have to kill him if he started trying to describe what he was feeling at the moment.

To his astonishment, Snape takes the offered hand and shakes it, briefly but definitely, then lets it go.

"Do not neglect the essay on hellebore that Professor Slughorn set in my absence," Snape says stiffly. "It will feature prominently in next week's assignment."

And with that, Snape turns and sweeps from the room. Harry watches him go, waiting until he has heard the outside door swing shut, then walks over to Luna's bed.

"I'll come back to see you soon," he tells her. He feels a sting in the corners of his eyes. "Meanwhile, let Snape look after you. He's not half bad at it."

There is no reply, except the quiet sound of her breathing.

Harry walks slowly up stairs and down corridors until he has reached the Great Hall. Everything around him is strange and new looking, as though it had been years, not days, since last he saw it all.

"Harry!" Hermione leaps from her seat at the table and pulls him into a brief, fierce hug. "I'm so glad you're back. How are you feeling? You look much better. Doesn't he look better, Ron?"

"Yeah, well, he'd have a job looking worse," Ron says, sounding rueful. "Here, Harry, we saved you some bacon."

"How's Luna?" says Ginny, as Harry sits down and begins to fill a plate.

"The same, pretty much," Harry says. "She's not talking, still. I'm going back to visit after dinner."

"I'll come with you," says Ginny. "I've got all her assignments, for when she's up to doing work again."

"But isn't she-" says Hermione, then stops, looking uncertain.

"What?" Ron frowns at her.

"I heard Professor Flitwick telling Professor McGonagall that they were thinking of transferring Luna to St Mungo's for awhile, especially now-you know, now that Harry's better, so she's not alone with Snape all the time."

"You don't say." Ron looks as though he's only surprised no one had the idea any sooner.

They all lapse into silence for a moment, and the only sound beyond the normal clatters and clinks of the Great Hall at breakfast is of the four of them chewing in harmony.

Harry gazes down at a plate of bacon and toast and thinks how good it all tastes, better than any food has tasted since...well, since before Sirius died. And on the heels of this thought arrives the realization that he hasn't been dwelling on Sirius's death the way he used to before the end of the summer. Since the day Uncle Vernon hit him with the car, he's been distracted, first by pain, then by the struggle of keeping the pain secret, then by the mortification of having Snape find out everything he'd wanted most to hide from him. Harry glances around at his friends, the other students, the teachers sitting at high table, and realizes that he feels like a completely different person now than he did two weeks ago. When the term began, Harry had felt as though he'd had a painful, gaping wound that exposed all the most fragile bits of his insides for other people to poke at-and now he feels like it's been sewn back together, the wound not quite healed yet, but closed and holding all the squashy parts inside where they belong.

And if I'd felt like this a week ago, Luna wouldn't have been hurt. I could have protected her. Harry's face flushes hot with anger at this thought. If I'd felt this way a year ago, I'd have talked to Snape again instead of rushing off to the Ministry, and Sirius would still be alive.

He doesn't notice the resolution when it forms. But a moment later his back is straight, his shoulders square, his chin up.

"Hermione," says Harry, when breakfast is over and they all start heading off in separate directions, "I need you to help me with something."

"Is it the hellebore essay? You promised me you'd do the extra reading, it makes the wandwork much easier to understand-"

"No, it's not about homework." Harry takes a step closer and looks around to be sure no one is listening, then goes digging through his bag for the Defense book. He opens it to the passage describing the Kinslayer's Aegis-he'd marked the place, for some reason, though he's read considerably past it, by now-and holds it out to Hermione.

He doesn't have to tell her to read it; it's a book, and this is Hermione. She takes it from him, brow furrowed, eyes moving rapidly over the page. She looks up at him, silent, questioning, when she's done.

"Can we do it?" he says.

Hermione's mouth falls open. She catches herself a second later, and glances down at the book again-to avoid having to meet his eyes, is his immediate thought, though why that should be he doesn't know.

"You want to perform this spell, Harry?" she says, her tone strange and hesitant. "On-your uncle?"

"You sound as if you didn't approve," says Harry. "It's not a dark spell, is it? Sirius and Remus gave me that book."

"Hardly any magic is inherently dark, Harry," says Hermione, in the faintly exasperated tone she uses when pointing out something she thinks is obvious. "Only the intentions of the witch or wizard using a spell can make it good or bad."

"Yeah, I know that," Harry tells her. "But you sound as if you don't like the idea of it-do you think I'm going to turn it dark, or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione says, scowling at him for an instant before she again began to look troubled. "It's only that I always think there's something a bit—worrying about geases. It's dangerous, trying to control people's behavior."

The crowds of students around them is thinning. They're both going to be late for their first classes if they don't get going. But Harry can't leave it for later. He needs Hermione to understand.

"I promise, I don't want to hurt anyone," Harry says. "Not even Uncle Vernon. But-Hermione-these last couple of weeks-" Harry can feel his face growing hot. "Everything that's happened-it's got Dumbledore and Snape thinking that I'm too, I dunno, damaged or fragile or something to look after myself. They're going to start wondering how I can fulfill the prophecy and stand up to Voldemort if I can't even sort out my Muggle uncle. I have to prove to them that I can do this."

The bell for the start of class sounds, but Hermione seems not even to hear it. She looks at him worriedly, her lips pressed together into a thin white line.

"It's a very complicated spell, Harry," she says at last. "It will take me a few days to work out the details. And you need to think clearly about how you want it to work. Once you've put a geas on someone, it's nearly impossible to break it."

Harry grins at her, relief flooding him. "You're the best, Hermione."

"Don't thank me yet," she says, them sets off for the Arithmancy classroom at a brisk trot.


	15. with love, part two

2 October

"Good morning," says Snape, with no expectation of a response.

The door swings shut automatically behind him as he walks into the sick room carrying a tea tray in his hands and a copy of the Daily Prophet under his arm. As usual, Luna is lying wide awake in bed, head propped up against the pillows. Her eyes track his movements as he arranges the tea on the table between the bed and his chair, for which he is grateful; without it, he would have no way of knowing for certain that she was conscious.

It's been a week and a half since her father's body was identified, and almost that long since last she spoke to anyone—in her waking hours, at least. She has taken to talking in her sleep of late, although Snape is not sure anyone would call that speech-eerie gibberish, more like. It's only been a few days since Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower, though, and every morning since then Snape has expanded his beginning-of-the-day ritual of tea, toast, and the newspaper to include Luna. She holds the warm cup of tea rather than drinking it, and for all she reacts to the news items he reads from the paper he might as well be commentating a game of Quodpot. Still, she is isolated nearly all the rest of the day, and he feels that she can bear with the imposition of his presence for an hour.

"The most sophisticated weather spells available to the Magical Weather Service predict that it will be damp and cold this week," he tells her, turning a page in the newspaper. "Astonishingly, I made the same prediction myself, when I glanced at the calender and saw that we are now in the month of October."

Her physical recovery is farther along now than he would have dared to hope for two weeks ago, which he attributes partly to the fact that there has been nothing to interfere with her rest since she crawled into her head and pulled silence up around her like a heavy blanket. Still, Madam Pomfrey can't say when she will be ready to return to what remains of her life. He supposes he can't blame Luna if she isn't in a hurry to get there; he has made discreet inquiries over the last several days and discovered that she has no living family left, and that while Arthur and Molly Weasley have volunteered to look after her interests during the remaining summer before she turns seventeen, there is nothing for her now outside Hogwarts except what she chooses to make for herself. A prospect both daunting and liberating for any young person, and Snape has no doubt that she would be equal to it, if not for the minor problem that she has chosen to cope with her grief by becoming semi-catatonic.

When the bell chimes seven, Snape glances up, sighs, folds the newspaper again, and Banishes the tea tray to the kitchen. A flick of his wand, and the bedroom door opens, and the last bottle of Blood-Replenishing Draught sails through the air to smack into the palm of hand.

"Four more doses to go," he tells her, measuring a quarter of the sludgy brown liquid into a glass tumbler.

He tries to imagine what his days will be like when he is no longer housing convalescent students in his private chambers, nursing by day and sleeping on his sofa by night. He finds it strangely difficult to picture. He has grown used to seeing Luna in the mornings.

In the instant this thought occurs, it is followed by another-that of seeing Luna in the mornings, seated at the opposite end of the rickety breakfast table at his parents' house in Spinner's End. He banishes the absurd thought as quickly as it arrives. Decorative she would undoubtedly be, but Snape suspects that if he takes to adopting orphaned children, even pureblood children, the Dark Lord may well begin to question his commitment to his cause. Besides, his other students might accuse him of favoritism.

When Luna has finished the potion, Snape takes the empty glass from her hand. Rather than turning to go, however, he finds himself meeting her eyes.

He could speak to her, if he chose, of loss so profound that it tears the mind apart. He could tell her that he recognizes her silence, and that it doesn't disturb him.

And yet, he concludes, averting his eyes at last, in order to speak to her so openly and intimately, he would have to have been a different man-and such a man would be unlikely to possess the bitter wisdom that enables him to sympathize with her in the first place.

He leaves the sick room without saying goodbye.

12 October

Snape dines in the Great Hall one evening not long thereafter. It is the first meal he has taken in the company of his colleagues for weeks, and he is forced to glower even more fiercely than usual to keep conversational attempts at bay. Just as he is pushing back from the table, Dumbledore summons him to his side with a look. Together, they rise, and, exiting behind the staff table, stroll down the corridor toward the Headmaster's office.

"Last night, Professor McGonagall caught Hermione Granger leaving the library after curfew," Dumbledore told him when they were in a deserted stretch of corridor.

"I beg your pardon," says Snape. "I don't believe I can have heard you correctly. Did you, in fact, just inform me that the earth is still rotating on its axis?"

Dumbledore smiled appreciatively. "Certainly, the event is not in itself very remarkable. But Minerva was good enough to write down this list of the books Miss Granger had with her, in the hopes that it might offer us some rare intelligence in what manner of mischief Harry and his friends might be planning."

"Intelligent woman," remarks Snape, taking the slip of paper covered in McGonagall's dense, difficult writing and regarding it warily, as though it were the fistful of entrails in which ancient diviners used to read their doom. "Gossman's Gramarye of Gruesome Geases? What possible use could that tiresome girl have for that book?"

"You can't guess?" says Dumbledore, with a small smile. "Well, you have been preoccupied. And I, certainly may be wrong in my suspicions. But I wonder whether the question of his uncle's fate hasn't been weighing rather heavily on Harry's mind."

"Dursley?" Snape recoils slightly, as though a cockroach had just scuttled across the stone floor in front of him. "He's not still here, is he?"

"He is in Surrey, closely monitored. But I believe he will have to be fetched back."

"For what reason?"

"The presence of the, ah, subject is required in the casting of most geases," says Dumbledore calmly.

Snape abandons pretense, stopping in the middle of the corridor and staring at Dumbledore frankly. "You intend to allow-to facilitate—this...endeavor?"

"Yes, I think so," says Dumbledore. "I shall remain nearby, of course, in case of catastrophe. But on the whole I think non-interference is called for." Dumbledore gives him a close look. "What is the nature of your objection, Severus?"

"Dursley should not be allowed within one hundred meters of the boy unless he is in a full body bind," Snape says immediately.

Dumbledore gives a small smile. "I do empathize, Severus," he says. "I believe we have both had our self control harshly tested these last few months. I certainly should never have suggested such a—participatory solution to Harry, myself, but the evidence would seem to indicate that the idea is all his own. And this being the case..." Dumbledore trails off, his voice sounding suddenly weary. "In truth, Severus, my failures with regard to Harry have been so great that I do not feel that I have the right to stop him taking the measures he deems necessary to protect himself."

Snape opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

"If Miss Granger has done her research thoroughly—and it would seem naive to suppose anything else—she will undoubtedly suggest to Harry that the ritual be conducted on the 31st of October. I can arrange for Vernon Dursley to be here around that time, and I will ask you to drop a hint in the hearing of Harry or his friends that will lead him to one of the guest chambers on the third floor, at the appropriate hour."

"If we approve their endeavors, why not confront them with it and arrange matters in the open? You know what Potter and his friends are, the moment we take our eyes off them they'll be hatching a plot to fly a carpet to Little Whinging and we'll be pulling their—their hems out of the fire, as usual."

Dumbledore arches an amused eyebrow at him, as though to suggest that he knows perfectly well what Snape had been on the verge of saying.

"I think our best chance of avoiding that eventuality is to let them continue to believe that they are keeping their secrets," he says at last. "I think that Harry wishes to prove something to us by performing this spell on his own of his own initiative."

"Such as?" says Snape.

"I imagine that he perceives his vulnerability as a kind of failure." There is a sad, wistful smile on Dumbledore's lips. "In light of what we have learned about Harry this year, I cannot help but think back on all of his remarkable accomplishments and see, with a clarity that I would have paid dearly to possess earlier, the desperate, reckless courage of a boy who never was able to assume that anyone was coming to save him. I imagine he has been going on this way for so long now that he no longer sees it as anything out of the ordinary—if, indeed, he ever did. And so, the fact that he was compelled to accept assistance and protection from us—well, to him it must seem like weakness."

The monstrosity of the thing—for now that Dumbledore has put it into words, Snape realizes that it is no less than the truth—nearly takes his breath away.

"You, Severus, will certainly understand the impossibility of reasoning with a young man's need to prove himself," Dumbledore continued. "So I think that we must watch at a distance—and hold our tongues in the mean time."

Unable to counter Dumbledore's argument, Snape walks in silence for a moment.

"Have you any news from St. Mungo's today?" Snape finds himself asking after a bit, in a game attempt at a casual voice.

"I have," says Dumbledore. "They report that Luna will be fit to return to us within the next few days."

"Indeed?" Snape's eyebrows fly the mileage to his hairline. "Has she begun to speak again?"

"No, she has not yet broken her silence in the presence of the Healers, but I indicated that I would not delay her return to school on that account. I trust that her teachers will find ways to work around that obstacle."

"No doubt," Snape mutters.

"She has made a very nice recovery, considering the severity of her injuries," Dumbledore says, observing Snape from the corners of his eyes. "There will be some lingering weakness in the chest, but the apothecary at St. Mungo's has devised a course of potions for her to take over the next year which should eventually cure even that."

"I'll want to have a look at it first," Snape interjects, a trifle more demandingly than he meant to.

"Naturally," Dumbledore murmurs.

Snape considers his next words carefully. "Did the healers happen to say how she was...sleeping?"

Dumbledore glances at him in evident surprise. "The subject was not introduced. Why do you ask?"

Snape shrugs. "She was...talking in her sleep, her last few days before going to St. Mungo's."

"Indeed? What did she say?"

Snape flutters his hand dismissively. "Gibberish."

"Ah."

Together, they approach the gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office. Snape waits until the Headmaster has given the password, admitting them to the dark stone staircase and the broad wooden door of the office, which springs open at his touch. Then, when the door is shut, sealed, and warded behind them, he waits for Dumbledore to seat himself—and begins.

"I've some news," he tells the Headmaster, feeling as though he has swallowed a heavy stone. "Concerning the Dark Lord. And...Draco Malfoy."

Dumbledore's face betrays no surprise as Snape tells him everything.

28 October

The beginning of his second week back in classes, Harry meets with Ron and Hermione in the Gryffindor common room after dinner.

Hermione takes a seat at a table facing Harry and Ron. To her left there is a stack of books as high as her head. She is holding a thick sheaf of notes, and she's peering down at them, muttering to herself silently. Harry exchanges a look with Ron, who grins; he's got a shrewd idea that they are both thinking exactly the same thing, which is that Hermione looks just like Professor McGonagall at the beginning of a lecture. They wait quietly for her to remember that they're there, and eventually Hermione clears her throat.

"Well," she says, "I've done rather a lot of research over the last week, and I think I understand how the spell is supposed to work. I want to go over it with you, Harry, because you'll need to make some choices."

"About what?" says Harry, frowning.

Hermione takes a deep breath. "First of all," she says, "do you know what a geas is, generally speaking?"

"Er," says Harry, racking his memory. He knows that he read a definition in his book somewhere, but there had been so many of them... "Isn't it a spell that controls one thing in relation to another thing? I mean," he gives Ron a dirty look when he snorts, "it has a kind of trigger, and unless something sets it off, you'd never know it was there."

Hermione's face clears slightly. "Yes," she says, "that's the idea. The spell you found—the Kinslayer's Aegis—is designed specifically for people who are related either by blood or by marriage, and it's meant to control the behavior of an adult with respect to a child. There's an old superstition that people who kill or betray members of their own family automatically let themselves in for a terrible curse, and I think this spell is where that idea comes from. It's terribly old, one of the few verifiable-"

"One of the few surviving spells from the age of Merlin," Harry finishes. "Yeah, I remember. That's good, right? It wouldn't have stuck around for so long if it weren't useful."

Hermione gives him the same uncertain look she had when he first showed her the spell and asked for her help with it. "I believe that it's very effective," she says.

"So why do you look like you think it ought to be a little less effective?" Ron asks, looking at her shrewdly.

"I don't," she says immediately, "it's just that—Harry, have you thought at all about what it is, specifically, that you want the spell to stop your uncle being able to do?"

Harry opens his mouth, and immediately shuts it again. He feels himself grow warm under his collar. "Well, it would be nice if he couldn't hit me. Or, um, run his car into me." He forced himself to ignore the way Ron's expression was darkening, and Hermione's lips were becoming a thin white line. "Or choke me, or starve me, though I suppose that matters less now I'm not going back to live with him. And I'd rather like it if he stopped insulting my parents, though that might be a bit outside the scope of the spell."

There's a beat of silence after Harry has finished this litany, then Hermione, after what sounds like a bit of an effort, replies in a rather stern tone.

"And you expect that one bit of magic can do all that, do you?" Hermione arches an eyebrow at him.

"Er." Harry catches sight of the expression on Hermione's face and tries very hard to look as though there is a possibility that the answer to this question is not "yes."

Hermione sighs, however, not at all fooled. "We're going to have to ask the spell to do something very specific—one thing in exchange for another. We can't stop your uncle behaving badly in general, because magic can't judge a person's intentions, it can only react to their actions. So for example, we could word the spell so that your uncle can't ever touch you, but then if you ever shake hands with him he'll be in as much trouble as if he'd hit you, and it still wouldn't stop him doing something like running you down with his car again, or writing to Voldemort and telling him he's welcome to come for you anytime he likes."

"Can't you just do the spell twice?" says Ron. "Say, once so that if he tries to touch Harry, he falls asleep, and again so that if he tries to write to Voldemort, his arm falls off." He looks quite proud of himself. Harry, who is pretty sure he knows how Hermione will feel about it, tries to keep his own expression neutral.

"It can't be done twice with the same locus and trigger," says Hermione, with more patience than Harry expected. "And even if we change all the variables, Mr Dursley is still the locus and Harry still the trigger."

They all sit in silence for a long moment, trying to think their way through the problem, when Hermione speaks up.

"Harry," she says, "could I just—say something?"

Harry looks at her, surprise. "Of course," he says.

"You asked me before if I thought you were turning the spell dark, and of course I don't think anything of the kind," she said. "But it's true that I don't like it very much. I've spent the last few days trying to figure out why, and I think I know the answer now. It's because—Harry, you've done so many incredible things in the past, things no one our age ought to have been able to do. But it was never because you knew loads of magic that no one else knew, or because your spells were so much stronger than anyone else's. It was because you trusted your instincts and made the right choices and put other people's safety before your own. And—please don't misunderstand," she says, because Ron looks as though he's about to start arguing, "I think it's wonderful that you want to stand up to your uncle. But this sort of spell—I really don't think it's you, that's all."

By the end of her speech, Harry is flushing from three different kinds of embarrassment, which must certainly be some kind of personal best. At first, it's the ordinary sort of self-consciousness that he feels anytime anyone refers to his so-called accomplishments, followed by squirming as he listens to Hermione's frank evaluation of his lack of special powers. By the end, though, he's feeling something almost like shame, as though he's listening to Hermione tell him something he knew all along, and doesn't care to hear again.

"Maybe it's not me," he says shortly. "But I don't know what else to do. And I've got to do something. This is about more than just me."

Hermione looks as though she's trying to screw up the courage to say something she thinks they won't want to hear. "Have you ever thought about—well-just talking to him? Here, I mean," she adds hastily, seeing his and Ron's expressions, "in a controlled situation, where he couldn't do any harm no matter how angry he got."

"Hermione, I've lived with him my whole life. We've talked loads." Harry is beginning to feel weary, even irritable. "The only way there'd be any point in talking to him more is if he were capable of seeing reason, which, I promise you, he's not."

"I'm not suggesting that you ask him politely to please treat you like a human being," Hermione says crossly. "I'm suggesting that you explain, from a safe distance, that you are a fully grown and qualified wizard now, with special permission to use magic against him, even though he is a Muggle, and if he knows what's good for him he'll keep his distance."

"So I should lie to him, you're saying," says Harry, with a small smile. "Right, well, leaving that side, I'm pretty sure Dumbledore already tried talking to him. It didn't stop him nearly killing me a few weeks ago."

"But wasn't the point that you wanted to make your own stand?" says Hermione quietly.

Harry leans back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. He doesn't know how to explain himself to her. A week ago, the plan had seemed so simple—he'd figured that complicated bits would all have to do with working out the spell itself, and he'd counted on Hermione to take care of that. He finds himself wishing that he could ask for Snape's opinion, or Luna's, or even Dumbledore's—but of course, that would defeat the entire point, which was proving to them that he could manage his own affairs.

"I don't think you're giving Harry enough credit," says Ron. "All that stuff Harry's done—you're making out like it was just by accident, or good luck, but he keeps doing it, doesn't he? No one's that lucky."

"That's not what I meant at all," says Hermione, sounding startled. "Harry's ability to cope with terrible ordeals without using brute magical force is proof of what Dumbledore has always said, that love is the oldest, deepest, most powerful magic the world has ever known. And it can't be taught. It can't be learned in lessons, or in books. Don't you see, Harry, that that's what makes you so remarkable? Your instincts, your intuition, they're worth more than all the spells and traps and cunning of Voldemort and all his followers put together! All I've been trying to tell is that you should keep trusting in your own power—keep trusting yourself. Because that's how you're going to defeat Voldemort." Her voice rises sharply. "And you are going to beat him, whatever anyone who knows about your uncle may think."

Harry and Ron look at Hermione, who ends this speech looking at once triumphant and strangely self-conscious.

"Blimey," says Ron. "Been holding that in awhile, haven't you?"

Hermione flushes. "Well," she says, in a dignified sort of voice, "I don't like to give speeches unless I'm sure you're listening."

"You got my attention," Harry mutters dryly.

They all fall silent for a minute, Harry gazing down at the surface of the table, trying to collect his thoughts. It's not that anything Hermione has just said is new to him, precisely. Dumbledore had said it before, and Sirius and Remus too, in their own ways. But Hermione's way of phrasing it is forcing Harry to regard it in a new light. Always before, the idea that his ability to love is in any way equivalent to the kind of magical power that Voldemort or his Death Eaters possesses has confused him, to the point that he has ended up leaving off trying to think about it very hard. You could perform a spell, say an incantation and wave your wand, and see a result right away. Love, though—love is unpredictable. You couldn't control it—it controlled you. And hadn't it led him badly astray? Hadn't he rushed off to the Ministry last year, because of his love for Sirius—and hadn't that gotten Sirius killed?

But that's not why Sirius died, came a voice, answering from the back of his mind—a cold, pitiless voice that he recognizes as one that he's heard before, and always blocked out. He died because you hared off to the Ministry without telling anyone—because you hated and mistrusted Snape. And that's the opposite of love.

This realization strikes Harry with the force of a physical blow. He sinks an inch further into his chair, head reeling with the implications.

"Harry." Ron is frowning at him. "You all right?"

"Fine," mutters Harry, rubbing at his forehead again. "Hermione—I understand what you're saying."

She smiles at him hopefully, but he presses on before she can speak.

"But I still want to do that spell," he says. "We can do it however you think it will hurt Uncle Vernon the least. Do the one where he can't touch me—since I'm probably never going to see him again after we do the spell, it won't make much difference one way or another. But I have to do something—something real, not just talking. It's a symbol, for me and for Snape and Dumbledore and—anyone else who finds out about it. Even if my most important power is—what you said, about love and instinct and all that, it still won't do any harm is people think I can be tough, too."

Harry and Ron both watch Hermione silently as she tries to come to terms with this. She gazes at him for a long moment, as though trying to read his mind. Then she gives a small smile.

"All right, Harry," she says. "That's what we'll do, then. I'll start working on the form of the spell. We'll need to do it on midnight, Halloween, so you'll need to be ready with your invisibility cloak."

"Why are we waiting?" says Ron.

"Because the most auspicious times for complicated ritual spells like this one are the quarter-year days," she replies automatically.

"Of course," says Ron, grinning. "I knew that. Obviously."

They all go up to bed after that, and Harry lies awake for a long time, thinking about things to come.

31 October

Halloween is, for reasons he does not care to examine, Snape's least favorite holiday of the year. The temptation to absent himself from the Feast is strong, and presents itself at regular intervals throughout the day. But he grits his teeth and arrives in Hall promptly at seven o'clock that evening, because he judges it prudent to keep Harry and his friends in view as much as possible. At least, Snape thinks, on this night, no one is likely to force him into an amusing hat.

He takes his seat at high table and finds himself reflecting on all the changes that have transpired since the start of term. He glances down the Slytherin table at Draco Malfoy, who looks pale and pinched and stares disinterestedly over Pansy Parkinson's head. Snape's hand clenches reflexively in his lap, and he forces himself to look away, towards the Gryffindor table—at Harry—who, quite suddenly, looks back at him. Their eyes meet; then, Harry smiles.

Snape's eyes widen involuntarily, and he looks away, startled.

Eventually, Dumbledore stands, and the Hall quietens, and Snape is relieved of the necessity of dwelling on his thoughts. He assumes an attitude of attentiveness, one eye on Dumbledore, the other on the Slytherin table. His students' feelings toward the Headmaster are their own business, but how they conduct themselves in his presence is very much Snape's.

"Good evening," says Dumbledore. "I wish to trespass upon your patience for only a few moments."

Dumbledore looks wearier, to Snape's eyes, than he has looked in a long time. He makes no attempt to hide his cursed hand or conceal it in the voluminous sleeve of his robe, a fact which should come as no surprise to Snape; he has protected them always from danger, but not from knowledge.

"Halloween is a time of celebration in the Muggle and wizarding worlds alike," he begins. "We decorate with harvest colors, and make merry of what frightens us. This practice reflects a very ancient wisdom, and it is a tradition which I hope will continue at Hogwarts long after my time."

A chill travels through Snape's body, listening to his words. They have a meaning for him that nobody else in the room will hear.

"But in times such as these, it is inevitable that we must have some fears that cannot be jollied away. And so I wish to re-emphasize to you the point that we who are gathered here are each other's best hope of comfort in an age when so little else seems certain. Each of you wears the robes of a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and this is a powerful symbol of the essential quality that binds us together, our shared humanity, which is a tie scarcely less binding than our common citizenship in the magical community. And as I have taken pains to express to you before, it is my belief that the things that divide us are of much lesser import than all we share in common.

"In the millenia of its history," Dumbledore continues, "Hogwarts has known many students whose eagerness to learn all that magic could teach them has led them down the path of the Dark Arts. Seeking wisdom, or power, or merely knowledge, they have turned to other teachers, and for a time, perhaps, they were satisfied. In the end, however, they all come to face one fact: that in the Dark Arts there is neither truth, nor knowledge, nor wisdom. There is nothing but the oldest lie, the worship of power, the strong abusing the weak for their own pleasure."

Snape stares at Dumbledore; around him, he senses the other teachers doing the same. He wonders what dark reflections have troubled his thoughts this evening, that he chooses to speak his mind so openly on such a night. His eye wanders again to the Slytherin table, where Draco sits, staring down at his plate, and then to Gryffindor, where Harry gazes up at Dumbledore, his face set and grim.

"My greatest hope," Dumbledore says, "is that before each of you leaves this school, you will have seen for yourself that—in the words of a Muggle writer of my acquaintance—'the hard path is hard, but not nearly as hard as the easy path'. I, and all of your professors, would count your allowing us to guide you on that path as an inestimable privilege. We shall endeavor to be worthy of your trust, in the hopes that you will grant it."

And then, without ceremony, Dumbledore takes his seat. A few seconds later, the food appears on the table, and the students, roused from the strange silence proceeding from the end of the Headmaster's speech, begin to fill the Hall with the clatter of porcelain and silver. Snape watches Dumbledore a moment longer, before filling his own plate.

Snape lingers just long enough after dinner to exchange a quick word with Dumbledore. "Dursley is arrived?" he asks, low enough that McGonagall is unable to hear.

"Yes." Dumbledore smiles at him, rising from his seat. "Which took rather a lot of finesse, I don't mind telling you. In the end, he was placed under an enchantment; he believes that he is spending the night in a five star hotel in Edinburgh, for business purposes. He should pass the night comfortably in the guest quarters and return in the morning with no knowledge of the excursion. I trust that Harry and his friends have received the necessary information?"

"Potter has been in communication with Dobby, the house elf. He was informed of Dursley's location and has apparently asked the elves to dose Dursley's dinner with a sleeping draught. I expect that this was Miss Granger's doing; no doubt it will ease the process."

"Hmm," says Dumbledore. Snape gives him a close look, but the Headmaster does not elucidate.

Snape passes the time remaining until midnight in his office, ostensibly marking papers, in actuality staring off into space, lost in thought. He has much to occupy him; matters have arisen which make the beginning of term, with all of its uncomfortable revelations and to-do about Harry and Luna seem like a halcyon respite from the dark realities of his life.

To his own surprise, he had found himself entertaining thoughts of bringing Harry into his confidence, after his interview with Narcissa Malfoy and his pledge to her. Only his awareness of the nature of schoolboy grudges had brought him back from the brink of disastrous incontinence. Harry would not understand that Draco Malfoy is, in Snape's eyes, as much a victim of adult cruelty as Harry himself; more so, even, in that Draco possesses fewer tools with which to resist the machinations that have ensnared him. The one gift the elder Malfoys had not imparted to their privileged offspring is courage of conscience. But love, they have; love for each other, and love for their son, earning their son's love in return. Harry's loves and hates are unambiguous; he has never known the misery of divided loyalties. It is not in his nature to choose the lesser of evils, and he would show no mercy on Draco for failing to choose the right path unprompted.

And yet, Snape knows that he must do something, give Harry something to hold onto in the days to come. In a matter of months, Dumbledore will be dead, and Snape will have entered into the final, desperate gambit of his career as a spy. He has known for two years now that this day was approaching; only now he is staring it in the face does he appreciate how little time remains to them before all hell is unleashed. How much easier it would have been, had matters between he and Harry not altered. Had they remained as they were, bitter, spiteful, mutually loathing, Snape might have slipped into the night at the Dark Lord's side in the knowledge that he was doing nothing more than fulfilling everyone's secret expectations. He has nearly reconciled himself to the necessity of appearing to betray Dumbledore, only in the knowledge that Dumbledore himself will know that is no betrayal at all, but faithful service. But the thought of what Harry will endure, thinking himself betrayed, weighs heavily on Snape. And Luna—what will they say of him afterwards? He can imagine all too easily.

He loves so easily, Dumbledore had said to him, months ago, on the day Snape's world had shuddered, expanding to make room for a Harry Potter who was more than the ghost of his mother and the sins of his father. And, proceeding from this knowledge, Snape cannot help but wonder—even hope—that he has earned enough of the boy's faith to make him doubt the evidence of his eyes. God knows that logic has less sway over the boy's convictions than sentiment. Perhaps—perhaps it is possible that he will doubt the tales of Snape's perfidy, and cherish the last lingering scrap of honor that Snape himself must sacrifice in order to win a greater prize. And afterwards—if they survive—perhaps they will meet again, his honor restored, his crimes redeemed.

Snape is himself a ruthless logician, but not even he is entirely immune to the allure of sentiment.

He sits at his desk, hands splayed over scattered reams of parchment, and watches the hands on the clock tick their way to midnight.


	16. with love, part three

He meets Dumbledore at the landing to the third floor at a quarter till midnight.

"They are not yet arrived," says Dumbledore, and that is the only information he requires. Wordlessly, they Disillusion themselves, and proceed down the corridor to the single occupied room on the left hand side.

There is a cheerful fire in the grate, and the purple velvet hangings are drawn around the bed. A loud, crackling snore fills the room. Snape notices that the dinner things have not been removed by the elves—doubtless part of the ruse that brought Dursley here. Snape follows Dumbledore silently to a far corner of the room, where they seat themselves, and wait.

At five to the hour, the door unlocks and swings open. Snape looks up, alert—then freezes. Standing just inside the room, gazing around at her surroundings with an air of polite interest, stands Luna, clad in a long, trailing white nightdress and a pale blue shawl of fine wool. She studies the bed for a moment, and another snore disturbs the silence. She tilts her head curiously.

One thought penetrates the baffled fury he feels: Luna, still barely ambulatory after her release from St. Mungo's, is standing five feet away from the Muggle brute four times her size who had lately attempted to murder another Wizarding child for his magic. He does not stop to think, or consult Dumbledore. He takes three long strides forward into the room and seizes Luna from behind, wrapping one arm around her waist and clapping the other hand to her mouth. She tenses under his hands, but she doesn't attempt to make any noise. She still has not spoken a word aloud since the day her father's body was found.

Snape drags her backwards to the corner of the room where he and Dumbledore have been waiting, and raises his wand. "Muffliato," he hisses, then touches his hand to the top of his head. The Disillusionment charm melts away, and he releases Luna, who turns to look up at him with a lack of surprise, he feels, that borders on insolence.

"What are you doing here?" he hisses in a low voice.

She gazes up at him, and does not answer, but the faintest hint of a smile touches her lips. He has not seen her smile in more than a month. He has not seen her, save from a distance, for even longer than that. He has to fight to keep from smiling back.

"You must leave—no, dammit." He throws a glance over his shoulder at the clock on the mantle. Seven minutes to twelve; Harry and the others will be here any moment. "There's no time." He turns to the empty armchair where he knows the Headmaster is sitting. "Dumbledore—"

"I am sure that Miss Lovegood is more than capable of following a few simple directions to ensure her safety," says Dumbledore. He does not break his Disillusion, and Luna tilts her head curiously in the direction his voice is coming from. Dumbledore rises and takes a decorative porcelain knick-knack shaped like a goblin from the mantle and causes it to dips its head, as though bowing to Luna. She does smile, then, which very nearly makes the whole farcical situation seem pleasant. The invisible Dumbledore puts the goblin back down again. "If you will just step over here, Luna," he continues, "Professor Snape will Disillusion you. We shall be observing, but we shall not interfere unless necessary. If interference becomes necessary, please leave it to us. Your health is still too delicate to permit strenuous activity."

Snape frowns at Dumbledore, even as Luna nods her acquiescence. "You cannot really mean-" he starts to say.

"Surely you don't propose to send Miss Lovegood back to to Ravenclaw Tower unaccompanied, Severus?" Dumbledore cuts him off smoothly.

"Of course not, but this is hardly better!" His frustration gets the better of him, and he rounds Luna. "Why on earth are you here?" he hisses.

The silence with which Luna greets the question is met by a delicate cough from Dumbledore that does not disguise a chuckle. Convenient, Snape thinks darkly, this voluntary muteness. With an exasperated sigh, Snape lifts his wand and touches the tip lightly to the top of her fair hair. She melts seamlessly from view, and the place where she stands takes on the texture and color of the stone wall behind her. Snape gazes at the spot where he last saw her, then, as nearly satisfied as he can be, points the wand at his own head, and casts the charm on himself again.

When they are both invisible, he reaches out and clamps his hand on her shoulder. He has no intention of allowing her to slip away and get tangled up in this business if he can help it.

No one speaks again until five minutes before midnight, when the chamber door creaks open. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger walk in slowly, careful to keep their steps quiet. A few seconds later there is a whoosh of fabric, and Harry's head appears in midair as the hood of his invisibility cloak falls back.

"He's asleep, yeah?" says Weasley, in a low voice. "Dobby put the potion in his food like you asked?"

"Yeah, I checked with Dobby at dinner," says Harry.

"Don't be surprised if he wakes up while we're doing this," Granger tells them all in a warning voice. She is carrying a thick sheaf of papers in her arms, and as she speaks, she sets them down on the table, after Banishing the dishes back to the kitchens, and begins to lay them out in what seems to be a specific order. She glances up, and frowns at Harry. "Put down your hood!" she hisses. "You're meant to be invisible!"

"I don't see the point, if he's asleep," says Harry.

"I don't see the point if he's awake," says Weasley, sounding as though he would be best satisfied if a fight broke out.

"We want this to go smoothly," says Granger irritably. "If he does wake up, he's bound to make a lot of noise, and it will be worse if he sees Harry. We can't Stun or silence him magically once we've begun to cast the spell."

Grimacing, Weasley takes up a spot against the wall, crossing his arms and waiting. Harry tugs the hood of his invisibility cloak back down over his face, and disappears from view.

Granger stands over the table, reading over her notes for another minute. Snape tenses in anticipation. Then, between one moment and the next, Granger lifts her head, points her wand at the hangings around the bed, and gives wordless flick. The hangings part.

"Right," she says, sounding both nervous and determined. "Harry, you stand here." She indicates a spot parallel to the bed. Snape can hear the swish of Harry's cloak as he comes to stand where she's told him. "And I stand in the middle," she says, walking forward to stand halfway between Harry and the bed. "And now, just—stay where you are."

Everyone in the room—including, Snape is quite sure, the farcically high proportion of invisible people—is watching Granger intently. She looks down at the papers in her left hand one last time, then draws a deep breath, and raises her wand in the other.

"Fortafamilia," she says, in a loud, clear voice.

Immediately, a jet of golden light shoots from the tip of her wand. It arcs high into the air where it hovers and coalesces into a ball of roiling amber-gold substance, neither liquid nor gas, but suggestive of both. As the ball takes form, shifting and shimmering in the firelight, shapes begin to appear inside it—the outlines of people without distinguishable features, one a large, rotund looking man, the other smaller, skinner, a child's shape. The figures inside the orb turn toward one another, and for a moment they circle each other, like animals meeting for the first time. Then, they grow still.

Noises begin to emanate from within. Angry voices, shouting, the high keening wail of a child in distress. The sounds pour forth in indecipherable layers, but the tone is unmistakable: the spell has recognized the relationship between Harry and his uncle, and the drama being enacted with the orb is a portrait of the last fifteen years of Harry's life in his uncle's house.

Snape's hand tightens on Luna's shoulder, as he watches, and listens.

Her face pale, but her shoulders squared, Granger lifts her wand and touches it to the golden orb. She pauses a second, then draws the wand away. A thin golden thread follows it, follows Granger, as she turns to Harry, and, with a flick of her wrist, sends the thread, still connected at its other end to the orb, plunging through the air toward the place where Harry stands, invisible.

"Hold out your wand arm, Harry," Granger tells him.

Snape hears the invisibility cloak rustle. The golden thread from Granger's wand coils cylindrically in the air, as though it has twined around a person's forearm. The thread grows denser and thicker, until it resembles a golden vine with thorns.

When the vine is secure around Harry's forearm, Granger touches the tip of her wand to the orb again and draws another thread over to the bed where Vernon Dursley lies, still snoring beneath his blankets. She stands there at his bedside for a moment, regarding him with an expression of distaste. Then she extends her free hand, pinches his meaty wrist fastidiously between thumb and forefinger, and tugs. His arm is pulled free of the blanket, and flops over the edge of the bed, bouncing a couple of times. Granger casts the thread of the spell towards him, and it lands like spider-silk on his wrist, where it winds its way up his arm, as it had done with Harry.

The moment the threads of the spell connect Harry and his uncle to the golden orb, Luna seizes underneath Snape's hand.

She gasps, her knees buckling beneath her. Snape is forced to stow his wand hurriedly in his pocket and wrap an arm around her waist, hauling her upright again.

"What is it?' Snape demands, in a low voice, grateful that the Muffliato charm is still intact. "Are you ill? What is the matter?"

She does not respond verbally; if she makes any other reply, it is lost on Snape.

"Is it working?" he hears Weasley say, from the other side of the room.

"Looks all right so far," says Granger, sounding grim. "But it's not over yet. You'll need to hold quite still for the next part, Harry."

Granger raises her wand again. She pauses, as though reluctant. Then her expression grows determined.

"Truxit," she says.

There is a gasp—not, as Snape thinks at first, from Luna, but from Harry. The golden cords binding him and Dursley to the orb glow brighter for an instant, then a scarlet patina overlays the gold, and a blinding flash of red light fills the room, burning Snape's eyes. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, he sees that the cords now appear red-hot. They tighten around Harry's arm and his uncle's, so much so that the flesh swells around them, and Snape thinks back, in a flash of remembered panic, to the Unbreakable Vow he swore with Narcissa, how the tendrils from Bellatrix's wand had seared their flesh, layering new scars over the old, a palimpsest of sins past and present.

"Hermione—"

"I know, Harry, but you've got to keep still."

"What's this for, though?"

"I explained it to you days ago!" Granger sounds upset, as though afraid of her own handiwork. "The first part of the spell establishes the relationship between you. The second part delineates what the spell's supposed to stop him doing."

"And the last part?" says Harry, through what sounds like gritted teeth.

"It will determine the consequences—what will happen to him if he tries to do what the spell binds him from doing."

Luna, still held fast in Snape's grip, gives a low sob that the children do not hear.

Before Snape can ask her again what is wrong, another noise rends the air—a low, distressed groan, a nightmare sound, issuing from the bed in the center of the room. Snape's eyes narrow.

Vernon Dursley is still, to all appearances, fast asleep. But his face is distorted, a rictus of agony. The flaming cords of the spell are tightening around his arm—and then, tendrils shoot out from the thorns, and begin to burrow their way beneath his skin. Faintly nauseated, Snape watches as the flesh of Dursley's arms swells and grows taut over the tendrils, which resemble a parasitic infestation. Then, alarmed, Snape looks over at Harry, but so far as he can tell the flaming vine wrapped around the invisible arm merely tightens, without invading the skin.

"God," says Weasley, sounding repulsed. "Is it supposed to do that?"

Granger, white faced and tight-lipped, merely nods. Her eyes are watering, Snape notes, but her wand-hand is steady.

The tentacle protrusions from the spell have worked their way up the Muggle's arm now, beneath the sleeve of his pyjamas. His face is still contorted, but his open mouth no longer seems capable of noise. Snape finds himself wishing he could see Harry's face. He feels certain that the boy—that none of the children—had fully envisioned this spell before attempting it. He wonders what Dumbledore is thinking, as he watches from their invisible remove. Snape recalls something had said to him they day they traveled to Surrey together: "I do not believe it will come to a contest of wands between them," he'd said, speaking of Harry and Voldemort, "and I do not want Harry encouraged in that idea." This is precisely the sort of powerful, manipulative spell that Dumbledore believes Harry would be ill-served to rely upon. And yet, he, who must have understood better than anyone of them what would happen here tonight, had purposefully not intervened to stop it. Why? Snape wonders. Not that, in his mind, the spell has yet exceeded the boundaries of anything Dursley deserves for his violence against the boy. But he rather imagines that Dumbledore, in his heart, feels different.

Before can examine the question further, however, Dursley begins to scream.

Snape's hand tightens involuntarily on Luna's shoulder. She is no longer moaning, but she is trembling almost convulsively now, like a dog throwing off water. Even Granger's wand-hand is, for the first time, none too sure. Whether the hellish cry from Dursley's throat was caused by pain or fear, Snape cannot tell. But his eyes are open now, and he is staring straight up at the bed canopy, as though transfixed by horrible images inside his head. He screams like a man being Cruciated, as though his throat is bleeding. Granger looks as though she is about to cry; Weasley's face is as white as death.

"Stop!" says a voice, just as Snape feels Luna give a final shudder, then grow still. "Hermione—"

There is a rustle of fabric, and then the Invisibility Cloak falls from Harry's shoulders.

"Harry," she gasps, "if you break the connection now—"

"I don't care!" he says fiercely. "You can still end the spell, can't you? It's not too late?"

Granger looks at him uncertainly. Then, with something very like relief, she lowers her wand unceremoniously. The threads binding Harry and Dursley snap. The scarlet and gold orb roils in midair—then vanishes.

The room is very silent. Only Dursley's hoarse sobs disturb the stillness. Then, before Snape has time for more than a single lurch of panic, Harry rushes to his uncle's bedside.

Snape sucks air between his teeth and raises his wand automatically, training it on the larger man.

"Severus." Dumbledore speaks for the first time, low, and close to his ear. "Wait."

Beneath the watchful eyes of his friends—Snape marks that Weasley, too, is holding his wand on Dursley—Harry strides toward the bed, where he bends low over his uncle's prone form. The Muggle, Snape notes, is whimpering still, clutching his arm to his chest. His breathing is broken, ragged, every other inhalation a sob.

"Uncle Vernon," says Harry, and the mildness of his voice is a soothing counterpoint to the distressed noises the larger man is making. "You're all right now. You're safe."

Slowly, with great effort, Vernon Dursley turns his head on his pillow and looks up at his nephew.

"You," he breathes. Snape's hand tightens on his wand.

"Me," says Harry, and in his voice there is neither guilt, nor recrimination, nor fear. "How do you feel?"

"Bloody awful," Vernon gasps. "I had dreams—nightmares—saw horrible things—" He rubs his arm.

"Yeah," says Harry. "Sorry about that. You won't have them anymore. You can go back to sleep now."

"What are you doing here, anyway?" demands Dursley, breathlessly. "Why aren't you at that ruddy school, it's the middle of term."

"I'm just going back now, Uncle Vernon." Snape can only see Harry's face in profile, his expression is set, his mouth twisted with a kind of wry smile. "You rest now."

"Wait." Vernon reaches out with his hand as Harry begins to draw away. His meaty hand closes, not on Harry's thin wrist, but on his sleeve. Snape relaxes fractionally. "You—did something. Stopped it."

Harry gives a small smile. "No need to thank me."

Vernon grunts; then, his eyes roll back in his head, and he falls asleep almost immediately.

Harry stands there, looking down at his uncle, for a long moment. Then, he turns back to face Granger and Weasley, who look back at him, slightly stunned.

"Well," says Weasley, shakily. "Bit anti-climactic, that."

"And yet," says another voice, near Snape, "not without a satisfying thematic resonance."

Snape turns; Dumbledore has removed his Disillusionment charm and stands now in plain view of the room and all its occupants. Granger gasps; Weasley, if it were possible, grows even whiter than before. Harry alone looks as though this sudden appearance of the Headmaster neither worries nor surprises him much.

"Professor," he says, greeting him.

Snape, taking his cue from Dumbledore, ends the charms that conceal him and Luna from view. Harry's eyes fall on Snape, and he merely smiles. But then he catches sight of Luna, and his eyes widen.

"Professor?" he says. "Luna?"

At the sound of her name, Luna takes a step forward, pulling free of Snape's hand, which comes away grasping her pale blue shawl. She stands, lit from behind by the fire, her white gown trailing at her feet, her tumbled hair and strange expression making her seem uncanny in the half light.

"Luna?" says Harry again, watching her uncertainly.

When Luna speaks, Snape does not recognize her voice. It has been a long time since he last heard it, and it is lower, harsher than he remembers. It raises the hairs on the back of his neck, and a memory chimes somewhere distantly at the back of his mind.

"These are the end days," says Luna, in her strange, rough voice, and, immediately, Dumbledore's eyes fix on her, their expression sharp and alert. "You shall see traitors prove faithful and cowards made bold; the lowly shall rise and the mighty fall. The servant of light shall falter, but, guided, he shall not fail. These are the end days; but those who love shall not despair, for love is as strong as Death, and all things shall be made new."

And then, to Snape's astonishment, she bursts into a loud peal of delighted laughter. Brilliant, merry, and pure, it shimmers in the air like diamonds, then dies away. She gazes at them each in turn, her delicate features a study in joy and rapture.

Then her eyes flutter closed, and she tumbles toward the floor. Snape darts forward to catch her; there is an armchair near, and he deposits her there, before straightening and meeting Dumbledore's eye. Dumbledore looks back at him, and Snape sees in the clear blue gaze a shining contentment that has not been present for many months.

"Well," says the Headmaster. "I suppose that settles that."

Snape turns his head to meet Harry's eye. Harry cocks an eyebrow questioning, as though hoping Snape can explain the Headmaster's words. And Snape, with a resignation born of many years, responds with the only honest answer at his command. He shrugs.

"That," says Snape, walking Harry back to Gryffindor Tower about half an hour later, "was a foolish, addle-brained stunt, and you are lucky that all participants are still in one piece."

"I know," says Harry. "I didn't really understand—Hermione tried to tell me, but I didn't really get it until I saw what the spell was doing to him. I never even cared about the spell working, really. I mean, I'm never going to live with him again. I just wanted—" He trails off, blushing. "I just wanted to prove to you that I could do it. That I could stand up to him all on my own. I didn't want you or Professor Dumbledore to keep thinking I wasn't capable. Not when I've got—stuff to do."

Snape's steps slow, as he stares at the side of Harry's head. "That," he says, "was—" he struggles for a word to encompass all the emotions tearing at his heart. "Unnecessary," he says at last.

They are alone on the Tower staircase. Granger and Weasley had departed ahead of them, at the Headmaster's prompting. Dumbledore had seemed to intuit, in his own ineffable way, that Snape would wish to speak to Harry in private, and had elected to accompany Luna back to Ravenclaw Tower himself—once she had regained consciousness, which had been fairly quickly. Snape had watched Luna closely for a sign that she had understood the import of her strange words, but she had fallen back into silence again, nothing of her rapture that lingered save for a strange effulgent light in her eyes. He expects that Dumbledore will uncover anything that remains to be found out; and so there is nothing left for Snape to do except catechize the errant child beside him.

But this isn't right; the old labels no longer seem to apply. The Harry from whom he had stripped a badly applied glamor in early September had been a child, badly wounded and vulnerable. The Harry who had shown mercy to his uncle, though, shielding him from the fires of retribution, was something else. Not a man yet, but well on his way, his feet planted on a path that will carry him far beyond the reach of Snape's protection. He has watched the boy for years out of duty to Dumbledore and love for Lily. Now, vocation and avocation united, he realizes that he has guarded Harry selfishly, as one guards whatever the heart holds precious. The need to keep Harry safe has grown fiercer, when it ought to have waned with Harry's return to strength. A bitter irony, Snape reflects; unique, he is sure Dumbledore would say, to those who love.

"What's going to happen to Uncle Vernon now?" Harry asks, after a minute or so.

Snape sighs gustily. "His memory will be modified, and he will be returned to Surrey."

Harry nods and walks by his side in silence for a moment, before speaking again. "At the end," he says, "I almost felt like we had sort of—come to an understanding. A—détente."

Snape looks at Harry incredulously. "Détente?" he says.

Harry grins. "I told you," he says. "I put in a good three or four hours with that dictionary."

Snape stares at him a moment longer, then snorts, and looks away.

"Sir," says Harry, "what was Luna doing there? And what was—all that stuff she said? It sounded—well—it sounded almost like..."

He trails off, clearly not wanting to speak the word aloud.

"A prophecy," Snape says. "I have—witnessed such a thing before. There can be no mistaking the genuine article." A heavy thought rises in his mind. He deflects it momentarily, to finish answering the question. "I do not know what brought her there. I suppose it is possible that she had been in the throes of a prophetic vision for hours, and it led her to a place of catalyst." Indeed, now that Snape thinks about it, her evident distress before Harry stopped the spell would seem to indicate that, had Harry chosen differently, he prophecy might have taken a very different tone. It is a troubling thought, and he does not voice it aloud to Harry. The weight of the world rests upon his shoulders already; he will not add to it.

And yet, Snape realizes, as they approach the landing, he must do exactly that. He cannot continue to stand in a mentor's place to the boy without confessing his greatest sins against him—without granting him the opportunity to reject him. Once upon a time in his life, Snape had been content to accept grace piecemeal—to compromise his heart in order to gain his heart's desire. It had led him down an evil path; it will not do for Harry.

He takes a deep breath and stops. Harry stops too, three steps higher than he is and looking down at him.

"The first prophecy I heard," says Snape, without preamble, "was Sybil Trelawney's prophecy regarding the birth of the boy who would defeat the Dark Lord—'born to those who have thrice defied him'. I was nineteen years old, newly pledged to the Dark Lord's service. I was half-blood, and my position was doubtful. I carried the prophecy to him—and he rewarded me. With this." Snape grips his arm over the sleeve, where the Dark Mark lies burned into his skin. "It was for this reason that he hunted your parents, finally murdering them. It was for this reason—" Snape inhales, "that he tried to kill you."

All the time he has been speaking, Harry's face has grown whiter and whiter. When he falls silent again, he watches the boy for any reaction at all. But Harry only continues to stare at him.

"Say something," he demands harshly.

Harry's mouth falls open obediently, but no sounds comes out. He shuts it again, then directs his gaze at the floor. Snape can see that his shoulders are tense, his fists clenched. Snape waits, an old dread seizing his heart; he feels exactly as he used to as a boy, waiting in his room for the heavy tread of his father's steps on the narrow staircase.

Finally, after what seems an eternity, Harry gives a long, shuddering breath. He shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter," he says.

Snape gazes at him in disbelief. Whatever he had expected the boy to say, it had not been this. "Doesn't matter," he repeats flatly.

"It was a long time ago," says Harry. "And you wish you hadn't done it. You've been trying to make up for it ever since. And—and that's all you can do. That's all anyone can do."

He looks up at Snape then, and there is an expression in his eyes that teaches Snape, for the second time in his life, that mercy is as terrible as hate, and burns with brighter flame.

Snape swallows, to wet his dry throat. "Very well," he says, trying not to betray the weakness of his relief. "You had better get on to bed, then.'

Harry nods, then turns to the portrait of the Fat Lady. He mutters the password, and Snape watches him climb through.

Before the portrait swings shut, however, Harry turns back to him.

"I reckon my mother would be proud of you," he says. "If she could see you now."

And then he disappears into Gryffindor Tower, too soon to see Snape give way to crushing absence of the burden he has carried longer than the boy's entire lifetime.


	17. epilogue: postscript

(This is the fate you've carved on me.)

*

Christmas Day, 1996

Harry awakens on Christmas morning, convinced that he can smell snow in the air, even though the dormitory windows are firmly shut.

He lies there for a moment in his bed, comfortable and warm and sleepy. He feels as though he could lie there all day, really, and not be fussed, if not for the fact that their new Potions teacher, Professor Slughorn, is hosting a party that night, and he's agreed to go. He wouldn't be fussed about skipping it, either, only he's going with Luna.

Which, eventually, seems like a good a reason as any to get out of bed. Well, that, and the pillow that comes hurtling at Harry through the bed hangings.

"Oi!" shouts Ron. "Presents!"

Harry pushes against the mattress and heaves himself upright. A small mound of wrapped packages have appeared in the night on the bed by his feet. He pulls the cord to open the curtains and finds Ron already divesting his own, rather larger pile, of its wrappings.

"Merry Christmas," says Ron, pausing to reach under his bed and grab a small box, which he tosses across the room. Harry catches it one handed, and reciprocates with a slightly larger, flatter package from the drawer of his bedside table.

The room is quiet for the next few minutes, punctuated only by exclamations from Ron as he investigates the contents of his packages. Harry, on the other hand, has only one of his presents, when he finds a neatly furled roll of parchment on the mattress between his parcels from Mrs Weasley and Hermione.

He picks it up and frowns down at it a second before giving it a twist. The small drop of red sealing wax breaks beneath his fingers, and the parchment unrolls, revealing a few lines of familiar spiky black writing, which Harry, squinting, makes out with some difficulty.

Mr Potter, it reads, if you find yourself with sufficient leisure amidst the days' festivities, I would be glad of your company at four this afternoon, in my office. There is a matter that I wish to lay before you. Signed, S. Snape

Of all the letters he and Snape have exchanged over the course of the past term, Harry thinks, this is by far the most mysterious, not even leaving aside the one with the postscript he'd failed to understand which had led to his getting dosed with the Waking Dreams potion. He gazes down on it, forehead wrinkling. He has no way of guessing what Snape wants to see him for on Christmas Day, of all days, but as he mulls the possibilities he can't help but be afraid that Snape has some bad news to relate. Strange things have been happening over the last couple of months, both inside the school and out. Since Halloween, Dumbledore has been taking trips away from the school for longer and longer periods of time, and he had returned from the last one with a blackened, shriveled stump in the place of his right hand. He had resisted all Harry's attempts to discover what had happened to him, but Harry thinks he might be about to tell him soon—he's asked Harry to come and take private lessons with him starting after the new year. And Snape has been busy as well. At dinner one evening in the beginning of November, Dumbledore had announced a change in the teaching staff: Professor Slughorn, who had substituted for Snape during the two weeks he had been away for classes, caring for Harry and Luna, was taking over Potions permanently, and the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, which had been taught that term by a rather boring, but at least not demonstrably evil Ministry witch called Clarissa Bodge, were to be taught from now on by Snape. Rumor had it that Professor Bodge had refused to allow Dumbledore to instate her as an official Hogwarts teacher, frightened by the popular belief that the DADA position was cursed, and had apparently been quite relieved to let Snape take over for her.

Between Harry's need to work flat-out for a month in order to catch up on all the work he had missed while recuperating from his injuries, and Snape's similarly overburdened workload, they have hardly spoken outside of class since Halloween, and Harry finds that part of him hopes Snape is calling him to his office simply to catch up. He, Harry, has missed their conversations more than he ever thought possible. And what was Christmas for, if not to catch up with friends?

What a different a couple of months makes, though, he thinks to himself, rolling the parchment back up. Time was, a letter from Snape on Christmas morning would have been enough to kill the mood for the whole day. Now all he feels is a vague irritation that Hedwig is up in the Owlery, and therefore not available to carry his reply right away.

"Can I borrow Pig?" says Harry to Ron, whose packages from Ginny the tiny owl has just delivered to the pair of them. "Need to send a note to someone."

Ron directs Pig to Harry with an insult and a flick of his wrist that sends the bird pitching through the air to land like a snowball on Harry's mattress. Harry hastily writes a single line to Snape on the plain side of a bit of torn wrapping paper-"Be there at 4, Harry"-and gives the letter to Pig, who takes it in his beak.

"That's for Professor Snape," he tells the bird.

Ron arches an eyebrow at him from across the room, but Harry just shrugs, and sets about opening his presents.

He arrives at Snape's office promptly at 4 o'clock that afternoon. It occurs to him as he is walking the last few steps down the dungeon corridor that he has not been in this exact place since his last disastrous Occlumency lesson with Snape the previous year. Somehow, owing either to the changes in their feelings towards each other, or fact that Snape is now teaching a subject that Harry isn't complete pants at, he hasn't been to Snape's office at all this term.

He feels a thrill of trepidation as he comes to stand before Snape's office door. For just a moment, time seems to turn backwards for him, and he is overcome by sharp, cutting memories of how it had felt to be that other Harry—fifteen, bitter, tired, and lonely. He feels so different now-stronger, maybe, than he has ever been in his life. He's not sure when or how that happened, but he knows Snape had something to do with it, and that's why it's silly to be nervous about knocking on his door now. After all, it's been months since Snape yelled at him last. Well-yelled at him unkindly, anyway.

He takes a deep breath, raises his hand, and knocks.

"Nerving yourself up to it, were you?" says a voice, not from behind the door, but from behind Harry. He spins, and finds himself faced with the long, narrow form of Snape, standing with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows delicately arched.

Harry has no idea how to answer him, but Snape doesn't seem to require a reply. He strides past Harry and releases the wards over his office door with a lazy wave of his hand. The door creaks open to admit them, shutting automatically once they have both crossed the threshold.

"Have a seat, if you like," says Snape, threading his way between the worktable and the edge of his desk. Harry accepts the invitation, which is the first of its kind-in his previous visits to this office Harry had generally remained on his feet, the better to duck, or run, if necessary. If he ever sat, it was only because he'd been commanded to, or else been knocked off his feet.

"Thank you for coming," Snape adds, heightening the surreal quality of his entire visit so far.

It strikes Harry that Snape looks ill at ease. Not nervous, precisely, but grim, with a hint of uncertainty-even distress. Harry has rarely ever seen him betray a hint of any emotion other than anger; certainly he has never done so in their current surroundings. Harry thinks that Snape looks rather the way Harry used to feel when he visited this room.

Snape glances away from him suddenly, as though seized by inspiration. He moves to the sideboard between two cabinets against the far wall of the office, busying himself there with his back turned to Harry. When he turns back a moment later, he is carrying two small glasses of dark red wine, one of which he offers to Harry.

"The compliments of the season," he says quietly, and Harry, slightly stunned, wraps his fingers around the crystal glass stem.

Harry watches his face carefully, as they both lift their glasses and drink. And then, as Snape places his own glass back on the sideboard, Harry is reminded of the worrisome thought which had crossed his mind when got Snape's letter earlier that morning.

"Sir," he blurts, "has anything bad happened? Something to do with the war?"

Snape looks surprised for a moment, then frowns. "No. Nothing." When Harry sighs, relieved, Snape exchanges his frown for a grimace. "My apologies. I did not mean to make you anxious. The business on which I've called you here is unrelated to-larger concerns."

"Oh," says Harry.

Snape walks back behind his desk, where he leans forward slightly, bracing himself against the desk's surface with both hands. Then he lowers himself into his seat, where he remains for a moment, only to rise again and step back into the open area of the room behind Harry's chair. He begins to pace.

Harry starts to rise as well, feeling awkward, but Snape halts this movement with a hand turned palm down. Harry sinks back into his chair, but he shifts slightly in order to watch Snape make his progression from one end of the chamber to the other.

Eventually Snape pauses in his restless perambulation to pause before a tall wooden cabinet with glass doors, full of stoppered vials. He keeps his back to Harry as he begins to speak, but Harry can see his face reflected in the cabinet door, and he knows that Snape can see him there as well.

"Forgive me," says Snape. "I am uncertain how to begin."

Harry blinks, trepidation warring with curiosity. The last time he'd seen Snape anywhere near this agitated, he'd been a hair's breadth from killing Uncle Vernon. But Vernon was sorted now, and Harry so well recovered that most days he hardly thinks of him; he can't imagine what else, apart from stuff to do with the war, could cause Snape so much consternation. He tries not to fidget in his chair as he waits for Snape to get on with whatever it is he wants to say.

A moment later Snape turns in a stiff, deliberate motion and comes to stand across from Harry-not behind the desk, as before, but behind a second chair beside the one Harry is sitting in.

"I wish," says Snape, and then shuts his mouth.

Harry waits. At last, looking rather pinched, Snape unbends far enough to sit in the chair beside him.

"I believe," he says, in a marginally less stiff voice, "that you know, in essence, the nature of the work that I perform for Dumbledore, and the Order."

Harry blinks at him in surprise. "You're a spy," he says. "Dumbledore asked you, after the Tournament fourth year, and you went back to spy on Voldemort for him."

Snape stares down at his hands, which are tightly clasped in his lap. He gives a small nod.

"Sir," says Harry again, "are you sure you're quite all right?"

Something in Harry's tone seems to fetch Snape out of his thoughts. "I am perfectly well," he says, a ghost of a smile tracing his lips. "Merely out of my depth."

Harry waits.

"I have...two requests to make of you. Harry."

Harry blinks at him a second time. Snape has called him by his first name once, maybe twice in the last six years. He resists the urge to ask for a second time if Snape is quite sure that Voldemort hasn't suddenly become all powerful and conquered the wizarding world since dinner ended, but only because he likes to think he would have heard if that had happened.

"What-sort of requests, sir?" he says.

Snape nods approvingly, perhaps at the fact that he did not thoughtlessly promise to agree without hearing them first.

"Whatever the outcome," says Snape, sounding as though every word is being forced from his mouth, "it is not likely that I will not survive to see the end of this war."

Harry opens his mouth automatically, to protest. Snape holds up his hand and stops him almost as quickly.

"I do not say this to distress you," says Snape, and a flicker of a smile passes over his mouth, as though he too is reflecting how differently Harry might have reacted to this statement a year ago. "Nor because I believe that my demise is imminent. I have no reason to think myself in immediate danger. I speak merely of...inevitabilities."

"Oh," says Harry, mind racing. "Well. I guess I understand that. I feel-sort of the same way. About myself." It is more than Harry has said to any of his friends, but he feels that he can say this to Snape. Or at least, he does until he notices how pale Snape has become on hearing his words.

"I forbid you to speak that way, Potter," says Snape, his voice tight. "There is a world—nay, a galaxy of difference between my situation and yours."

"Not the way I see it," Harry retorts.

"You are endlessly impertinent," says Snape, but his voice is devoid of any real anger. "Very well. Forget all that I have said. We are both of us bound to live long and happy lives. Nonetheless," he says, speaking loudly, as though to drown out the presence of Harry's sudden grin, "I shall die one day. No doubt in bed at the age of one hundred and fifty, surrounded by a brood of reverential great-grandchildren. At the moment, however, I am without any family of my own. And should I chance to tread disastrously upon a wet flagstone in the corridor later today, I shall die without an heir."

Snape's face becomes strangely closed once more, and Harry watches him, wondering what could bring someone as reserved as Snape to talk about this sort of thing openly with anyone, much less Harry.

"It is a matter of no significance to anyone but myself. I have little enough to leave-a few books and artifacts, a house no one would wish to live in. My naming an heir is an act devoid of any meaning that is not strictly metaphorical."

Snape lifts his head, and, for the first time since they entered the office, he looks Harry square in the face. The expression in Snape's dark eyes is so intense that Harry feels for a second as though he has been slapped, or burned.

"Be that as it may," Snape continues, "I should like-with your permission-to name you in my will as my heir."

Harry sits, stunned. He is fairly certain that his mouth is hanging open; possibly drool is collecting at the corner of his mouth. Snape seems to detect his astonishment; he continues, in a tone of explanation that would not have been out of place in his classroom.

"Had my life been a different thing," he says, once again dropping his eyes to his lap, "had I not bankrupted myself twenty years ago-you might have been mine." Harry is saved having to reply to this; Snape does not pause, save to flash a brief, humorless smile at nothing. "It is as well for you that you were not, I think. You must know enough of me by now to guess what sort of father I would have made. Yet you are the closest thing I have in this world to an heir of my own body. And I-" Harry can hear the stumbling in Snape's voice well before he manages to push the words out, "feel a greater bond with you than I ever have with almost any other living soul. I...would wish what little I have to be yours. It would, I think, finish something for me. If you would allow it."

Harry feels breathless, as though he has been through some sort of trying physical ordeal. There are a hundred things he wants to say, but none of them seem right or appropriate, so he says the first thing that springs to his lips.

"You said you had two requests, sir."

Snape is silent for so long that Harry begins to be afraid he has made a terrible mistake not answering his first question immediately-that he has somehow hurt Snape's feelings. But Snape, Harry decides, does not look wounded, merely nervous, hesitant. Harry sits back in his chair and waits.

When Snape begins to speak again, he does so without looking at Harry, without lifting his head, without moving at all.

"My second request," he says, "is one that I must make of you, for my own sake. But I do not expect you to grant it. I am well aware how little I deserve such consideration. But it is among the matters that I-wish to settle."

"Before you slip on a wet spot in the hall."

"Quite." Snape acknowledges this with a tiny smile before his eyes grow distant again. Harry waits for him to speak again, tension mounting in his chest, making his heart speed up.

"I have..." Snape speaks slowly, thoughtfully, "done you many great wrongs."

"Sir." Harry leans forward in his chair automatically, but Snape holds up a hand to silence him again.

"I am partly to blame for the death of your parents," says Snape. "I am partly to blame for the misery in which you spent your childhood. I failed in my duty, my vow, to protect you. I inflicted injury upon you. I made you the object of my cruelty and scorn. I was blind to your needs-wilfully blinded, by my prejudices and resentment. You need not have suffered so much as you did. I might have prevented it. That was my job. I failed you."

Harry has not moved for the last thirty seconds, and when Snape begins again he ceases to breathe as well.

"For all this," says Snape, dark eyes boring into his, "for all that I have done and all that I have failed to do-for my weakness, my ignorance, for my folly-Harry. I beg your forgiveness." Snape inhales a long, shaky breath. "I beg it most humbly."

Harry stares back at Snape, feelings as though the room has shrunk around them to a space the size of a cupboard. He would like to look away, because the expression in Snape's eyes is so intense he thinks it might scar him. But he can't look away. Snape has asked him a question-two questions, now-and he must answer them.

"Of course," Harry breathes, now that he is again able. "Of course I forgive you, Professor. I forgave you ages ago."

Snape does not say anything, but to Harry's eye he seems to relax minutely. He eases himself back into his chair ever so slightly, and the knuckles of his hands become less white and strained as the fingers gripping each other relax.

"Thank you," says Snape.

"And—the other thing. About—being your heir." Harry licks his lips, which are strangely dry. "That's okay too. But I want something in exchange."

Snape does not say anything; he merely arches an eyebrow.

"Stop talking about your dying like it's a foregone conclusion." Harry speaks fiercely, trying his best to sound stern and adult, not like a kid making a plea. "I know that what you do is incredibly dangerous, but you're still alive, so you must be really good at it. You've just got to—make an extra effort," he finishes feebly, feeling foolish.

Snape cocks an eyebrow at him. "I should try quite especially hard not to die, in return for which you will consent to inherit all my worldly possessions when I do?" he says coolly.

"Yes," says Harry, stubbornly.

Snape appears to wrestle with this concept for a moment. "Have you ever actually heard of irony, Potter?"

Harry flushes in embarrassment, but he refuses to be put off. "It's just—don't take this the wrong way, sir, but for a moment you sounded a bit like, 'Right, I'll get all my loose ends tied up and then it won't matter too much if I get killed.'" Harry shrugs at Snape, who turns a rather sharp look on him suddenly.  
"I've thought like that once or twice. Wondered who I'd leave my Firebolt to. Not often, but...anyway, you shouldn't think like that."

Snape continues to look at him, then clears his throat. "You do have the odd moment of alarming insight."

They sit and look at each other for a moment, then Snape pushes back from his desk abruptly and walks back to the sideboard, where he take a different glass from the cupboard and fills it with an amber liquid that fills the room with a sharp, bittersweet aroma. He doesn't offer one to Harry, but he does refill his wine glass and hand it back to him.

"To long life," he says, and raises his glass. Harry does the same, and they drink. The wine is sweet, and tastes of cloves and orange.

Snape does not take his seat behind the desk again, choosing instead to lean against the sideboard, looking more relaxed than he had before. He drums his fingers against the wooden surface.

"Do you ever think," he says, in a low, almost tentative voice, "about the sort of life you wish to lead, after this damnable business is over?"

Harry thinks this over for a moment. "Yeah," he says, in an equally quiet voice. "In a general sort of way, I do. I really do think I'd like to be an Auror. I mean, even if Voldemort choked to death on a plum pudding tonight, it's still the sort of thing I think I'd be best at."

Snape rolls his eyes. "Developed rather a taste for adrenaline, have we?"

"Actually, sir, I have a feeling that most dark wizards are still less dangerous than basilisks."

Snape snorts, and sets his glass down. "Perhaps so."

"But—aside from that," Harry goes on, "I want a family. And I want my friends near me. Ron and Hermione and Luna and Remus. And—" Harry's face colors, but he forces himself to say it, because he has a sudden instinct that this may be something it would do Snape good to hear, "you, sir, if you didn't mind being bothered with me sometimes after I've left school."

Snape becomes so still that for a moment Harry is afraid that he's said something terribly wrong. "So, you know, that's another reason I'd quite like it if you made up your mind you were going to live through the war. I'd like to have kids of my own some day, and I'd like them to know you. They could do with a godfather who knows a thing or two about getting on in a world that's not always fair, or easy."

Snape's face, Harry notes with some concern, is whiter than he has ever seen it. Something hard and brilliant flashes in his dark eyes, and though it is gone a moment later, the impression of it lingers in Harry's mind, as though he had looked straight into the heart of the sun.

Then Snape averts his gaze, and clears his throat delicately. Still, when he speaks again, his voice is rather hoarse.

"One thing at a time, Potter," he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. "Time is not finished with us yet."

Something about the way he says it makes Harry think of Luna's strange rapture on Halloween, after he'd ended the spell on Uncle Vernon and she had turned a look of blazing joy on him and began to speak of things that he knows he will never understand entirely. "'All things new', Professor," Harry says to him. "Remember what Luna said? I always reckoned she was a bit of a Seer."

Snape's expression softens, the way Harry has noticed that it often does when Luna enters the conversation.

"Speaking of Miss Lovegood," he says, in a brisk, normal sounding voice, "don't you have an engagement with her this evening? Perhaps you should go and prepare for it."

The party is still hours away, but Harry recognizes a dismissal when he hears it. "Yes, sir," he says, getting to his feet. "I suppose I should."

A small smile touches Snape's mouth. "Do make an effort," he says. "She was by a short while ago to show me her frock. You'll want to look smart for her."

Harry grins back at him. "Do my best, sir. Will we see you there?"

Snape assumes a long-suffering expression. "Indubitably," he says. "I can hardly see how I would avoid it. "

"Right." Harry starts to turn for the door.

"One moment." Harry stops and faces him. Snape has gone back to his desk and is rummaging through a drawer for something. He straightens after a moment, and comes back bearing a small, wrapped rectangular package, which he extends to Harry. "I nearly forgot. This is for you."

Harry looks down at it, wide-eyed. He feels like a prat, suddenly, that it hadn't even occurred to him to get anything for Snape. He tears off the wrappings and opens the box. Inside it, he finds a small mirror in a golden frame.

Harry looks up at Snape. "Is this—a two-way mirror? I have one, but it's—" He leaves off, his throat dry.

"Yes, you have James', I believe?" Harry nods. "And Black had the mate. This one, however," he indicates the mirror in Harry's hand, "belonged to your mother."

Harry gazes down at it. He sees a pair of wide green eyes reflected back at him, and for a single, startled moment, he expects to see a curtain of red hair falling on either side of them. But then he shifts the mirror slightly, and realizes that it's only his own face looking back at him. His hand tightens around the frame. He realizes, with a rush of emotion that is difficult to contain, that he has never before touched anything that his mother had touched. For a moment, he fancies that it's still warm from her hand.

"And—you have the mate to this one," he guesses, tearing his gaze away from the mirror.

"I do," says Snape. "Your mother made them. All four of them. The pair that Black and your father shared were a present from her. She was...extraordinarily talented."

"Thank you." Harry wants to say more, but his throat feels tight. He looks up at Snape. "I guess this will work even better than the Portkey you made out of my toy soldier."

"You are to use it," Snape tells him, in a severe sort of voice, "if ever you have need."

Harry nods silently, and slips the mirror into his pocket.

Snape turns his back on him then, and for a moment, Harry thinks that this is his cue to leave. But then Snape moves to the sideboard again, fills Harry's glass for a third time, picks up his own, which is still mostly full, and walks back toward Harry.

"Not all magic is performed with a wand," Snape says, handing the smaller glass to Harry again. "There is power in ceremony as well. Three is an auspicious number, and midwinter an auspicious time."

Harry holds the glass, looking at Snape expectantly. But when Snape says nothing, Harry realizes that Snape is waiting for him to propose the toast.

Harry raises his glass. "To Lily," he says, surprised to hear the roughness in his own voice. "To family."

Snape's mouth tightens fractionally, and he lifts his glass.

"To love," he says.

And as Harry drinks, he realizes that, to Snape, and to him as well, they are all the same thing.

The magic of ceremony lies in the nature of time, which decrees that each moment of our lives is both transient and eternal. We speak of "stopping a moment" just long enough to acknowledge its deathlessness—and then we let it go, back into the ages. In this way stories are also ceremonies, deliberately stringing moments together like popcorn and cranberries on a Christmas garland. And stories are also magic, both endless and fleeting; stories give birth to stories, and all the stories are one.

Take, for instance, the story of Severus Snape and Harry Potter. This tale of their transformation has its ending, but other stories, which would not exist without it, come into begin almost immediately.

At the end of Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts, he witnesses the killing of Albus Dumbledore. And though he sees the man who holds the wand and performs the curse, he knows in his heart (which in Harry's case is a much surer organ than the brain) that Severus Snape is no murderer. So he waits, hoping, daring to trust in the story they both belong to, even though his friends doubt him, and the world mocks him.

Much later on, while Harry is keeping a cold and lonely watch in the woods one night, he hears a voice calling his name, a voice he recognizes. He reaches into his bag and draws out the gold-framed mirror he has carried with him for a year now, and finds Snape looking back at him.

"Did you find the Sword?" Snape asks, in typical fashion, terse and without greeting.

"It was you," says Harry immediately, feeling the pieces of the story fall into place. "You left it there for Ron and me to find! Bloody hell, Snape, I nearly froze my—"

"You must come to Hogwarts," Snape interrupts him. He keeps glancing away from the mirror, as though he is afraid of being seen or heard, and Harry realizes how difficult it must be for him, perpetually surrounded by enemies. "When your search is done. I have a message for you from Dumbledore, but I cannot give it to you until the proper time."

Harry and Snape argue about this for awhile, naturally, but in the end Harry says, "Are you all right?" The older man looks tired, older, more worn than he has ever looked before.

"Never mind me," says Snape gruffly. "Watch your back. I will expect to see you in the spring." And the surface of the mirror clouds over.

When spring comes, they do meet again. Harry uses the mirror to tell Snape that they are approaching, and Snape arranges to meet them at the Shrieking Shack. Only, once they are in the tunnel leading to the house, Snape's face, pale and drawn, appears in the mirror again. "Go back!" he hisses, his voice low and terrified. "The Dark Lord is coming, he wishes to speak with me."

But Harry, following an instinct that is stronger than understanding, waits in the tunnel with Ron and Hermione, his heart pounding. He listens to Snape plead with Voldemort to be allowed to go and find Harry. And for the first time, Harry understands why Snape is so good at Occlumency.

Harry realizes the danger that Snape is in moments before Snape himself does. Harry sees the snake, gliding in her magical cage, and turns to Hermione, cold with fright.

"The snake," he whispers, so low that it's a miracle Hermione can hear him. "He's going to set the snake on Snape!"

Which is why, when Harry, Ron, and Hermione burst into the Shack seconds after Voldemort disappears, Hermione has vials in hand already—three different kinds of antivenin, dittany for closing wounds, and Blood-Replenishing Potion, which she loses no time in pouring down Snape's throat, one after the other.

Snape fights her at first—there is something he wishes to tell Harry, but Harry refuses to hear him until he is sure that Snape is out of danger. He watches Snape grasp at Hermione's robes, and his heart feels as though it is constricted by iron bands. The blood covering Snape's robes, and all the floor around him, reminds Harry horribly of Luna, a year ago, lying on the floor in the dungeons, Snape bending over her, tipping vials of the same potions down her throat. At last, when the terrible gash in Snape's throat closes, and his breathing is even, he bends near to Snape's face to hear what he is whispering.

"Must tell you," he says. "Dumbledore's message.." But it is clear to them all that Snape is too weak to talk.

"Here, Professor," says Hermione, producing one of the empty vials. "We'll find a Pensieve, don't strain yourself."

And Snape does as he is bid, drawing fine strands of silky memory from his head by the tip of his wand and depositing it in the vial that Hermione holds for him with steady hands. When the last of it is in the vial, he gives a great, shuddering sigh of relief.

"We can't move him yet," says Hermione, "he's much too weak. We'll have to cover him with an invisibility cloak, I've got Moody's spare one in my bag."

"Harry," Snape whispers, and Harry bends close again while Hermione fumbles in her bag. "When you see the memory..."

"Don't worry, Professor, I'll go straight away," Harry promises, thinking to soothe him, but Snape clutches his hand in a grip of steel.

"He expects too much," Snape whispers. "He always did. You could run, Harry. It's not too late."

"I'm not running," says Harry, fiercely. "I'm going to end this."

Snape says nothing, only watches him with eyes that seem, to Harry, filled with a terrible pain that has nothing to do with his wounds. Then his eyes close, and he falls asleep. Hermione covers him with the cloak, and they set off back for the castle.

When Harry sees the memories that Snape has given him, he understands why Snape had told him to run. He holds the knowledge close to his heart as he walks into the Forbidden Forest with the shades of his parents, and Remus and Sirius. Snape had as good as told him that he would rather Harry live than Voldemort die, and Harry knows this for what it is, proof of love as great as a father's.

"Snape tried to tell me not to do this," Harry tells Dumbledore, afterwards.

Dumbledore gives him a smile that is at once warm and sad. "I never told you," he says, "how much joy it gave me to see the two of you come to understand each other, before the end. It was a balm of healing to an old man's heart."

When Voldemort is dead, Harry leaves the crowd with Hermione and makes his way straight to the Shrieking Shack. But Snape is gone. They go back to the castle and enlist the aid of everyone who is healthy and willing, but no one finds him.

"He must have awakened and gone to hide somewhere safer," Hermione tells Harry. "I'm sure he's all right."

Harry checks the mirror every few hours, but Snape does not reply when Harry calls his name.

Days, weeks, months pass. By the middle of the next year, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Neville are all back at Hogwarts, but Harry and Ron are already half through their first year of Auror training. The days are long and full of hard work, and he doesn't have much time to dwell on the past—which, all in all, is precisely what he wants. But from time to time he still pulls out the mirror and call Snape's name.

And then, one days, Snape appears.

"Yes, Potter?" says the familiar voice, sounding bored. "What sort of scrape have you got yourself into this time?"

Harry gapes at the mirror, heart pounding. "You!" he shouts. "Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea how worried I've been? Half of Wizarding Britain has been looking for you!"

Snape rolls his eyes, as though Harry has just made some sort of elementary mistake in Potions. "That is precisely why I have been unavailable," he says. "No doubt the thought failed to cross your mind, but recuperating from a near-death experience is a task best undertaken in quiet and solitude."

They spend the next few minutes arguing furiously. Harry tries to assure Snape that his name has been cleared, that everyone understands he is no murderer—that he is a hero, the greatest hero of the war.

"You are a child, still," Snape tells him dismissively. "I know you have been telling anyone who will listen that I am the second coming of Merlin, and I thank you for your efforts." His voice becomes gruff. "But I assure you that there are still those would choose to hold me accountable for my crimes. And no dearth of others who would have revenge upon me for my scant virtues."

"Just let them try," says Harry fiercely. "I'll be an Auror, fully qualified, by Christmas. Just let them come after you."

Snape smiles at him, and the look seems to Harry equally mocking and fond. "I do believe," he says, "that the protégé has come to fancy himself the guardian."

The conversation ends with Snape refusing to tell Harry his location, but promising to answer his mirror on a semi-regular basis in the future. They settle into a kind of routine, Harry calling once every month or so, Snape answering, but refusing to name his location or say when he will return to England. Eventually, Harry stops using the Auror office to try to find him.

Five years after the death of Voldemort, Harry calls Snape up and grins at him through the mirror. "Ginny and I are getting married," he says.

"So I have been informed," says Snape. "Well, well, Mr Potter, congratulations. All your dreams begin to be realized." The words should sound snide, but somehow they are not.

"Will you come?" says Harry, trying and failing not to hold his breath. "To the wedding."

Snape sighs long and windily. "Yes," he says. "I have been informed in no uncertain terms that we will be attending."

Before Harry can voice the immediate question of, "What do you mean, we?" another face crowds Snape's out of the mirror.

"Congratulations, Harry!" cries Luna, her face shining with excitement. "We're so happy for you!"

"Luna!" Harry exclaims, eyes bugging from his head. "You're with Snape? But how—I thought you were hunting wrackspurt colonies in South America!"

"Well, sometimes I am," she says, "but sometimes I just say that because I'm visiting Severus."

Severus? Harry thinks. But before he can process this, Snape has wrested the mirror back.

"My compliments to Ginevra," he says. "We shall see you at midsummer."

The first time Harry sees Severus Snape in the flesh in over seven years is in the moment that he and Ginny, having been pronounced man and wife, turn to walk arm in arm back down the aisle through the crowd of friends and family pressing in on either side of them. Snape is standing at the back, wearing navy blue dress robes, his hair cut very short, streaks of grey along his temples. Luna, looking strangely, radiantly beautiful, stands beside him, her arm linked through his. She grins blindingly at Harry and Ginny, and waves as they pass. Snape merely nods, but even Harry can read something like approval in his dark eyes.

Harry loses track of Snape until about an hour into the reception, when he looks up from shaking the hand of a Weasley cousin he hardly knows to find Snape gazing down on him.

"You came," says Harry simply.

"I came," says Snape.

Neither of them are oblivious to the stares and whispers of the crowd around them, but Harry blocks it out. He has pictured this moment so many times since the day he left Snape on the Shrieking Shack in a pool of his own blood, but now it has arrived he doesn't know what to say first. He reaches out and grips Snape's shoulder, and in almost the same instant Snape wraps the opposite hand around Harry's forearm tightly.

"I'm really glad you're here," Harry says.

"Likewise," says Snape.

Harry looks searchingly into the face he has only glimpsed in a mirror for so many years now. Snape is undoubtedly older, but he seems healthier; he is less thin, his face is lightly tanned, and his short. greying hair makes him look less like a Muggle caricature of a witch and more like a bird of prey.

"I never knew what to say to you," Snape says finally. "You saved my life, and I sent you to die."

"No you didn't," Harry says automatically. "You told me to run."

"You didn't honestly believe that I thought for a second you would actually do so," says Snape softly. "No more than your mother ran when Voldemort offered the same choice to her."

Harry swallows hard and clears his throat. "So," he says, "you and Luna, huh?"

Snape's expression alters—slightly, but perceptibly. He looks, Harry thinks, a little bit guilty, a little defiant, and extremely well satisfied, all at the same time.

"Yes," he says.

"How long?"

"She located me in Brazil about three years ago," he says. "We were married some six months back."

Harry chokes on his champagne. "Married?" he wheezes. "You got married? You bastard! How could you not tell me that? Where's Luna, I'm going to wring her neck!"

"I'm so sorry," says Snape, in an extremely polite and faintly amused voice. "What did you just say you were going to do to my wife, Potter?"

"Er," says Harry. "Kiss her chastely and respectfully on the cheek?"

Luna pops up then, as though she had heard her name through the crowd, and plants a kiss on Harry's cheek instead.

"Severus told you?" she says.

"How do you see me almost every day for three months and not tell me you got married?" Harry demands of her.

"Not doing something is usually much easier than doing it," says Luna serenely, slipping her arm through Snape's, who folds a hand over hers in a possessive gesture that makes Harry want to dive back into the crowd and find Ginny.

"So are you back now?" says Harry hopefully.

"Our affairs in Sao Paolo are not yet finally arranged, but...yes. I believe that we shall settle in England."

"That's great," says Harry, unable to repress a grin. "That's brilliant."

"Yes, well." Snape glances from Harry, to Luna, to the room generally. "It took a bit of time, but I discovered that there were, after all, things here that I was unwilling to do without."

Six months later, Snape and Luna take a cottage on the Sussex coast, where they begin raising bees. A year after that, just before the birth of their first child, Harry and Ginny finally divest themselves of a large chunk of Harry's parents' fortune and build a house in the same county, close enough to walk on fine days. In the handful of years that follow, Snape and Luna attend christenings at Phoenix House for both their namesakes, and on very rare and special occasions, Snape even consents to join gatherings at the Burrow.

One afternoon in late summer, Snape is walking alone in the high grasses along the coast road, when he spots a tousled head of black hair, so familiar that it makes his heart leap. A moment later the impression is dispelled; it is not Harry, made magically fifteen again, but Harry's second child, Snape's godson. Albus Severus Potter is thirteen as of last March, and he is taller than his father was at that age, but the resemblance is nonetheless striking.

He comes to stand beside the boy, who looks up at him and grins. "Hello," he says. "Aunt Luna send you packing?"

"Apparently she requires silence and solitude to make notes on the new Nargle colony in the observation hive," Snape admits. "And you?"

"Going to Wiltshire tomorrow," says Albus. "Spending a week with Scorpius, then going up to school together. Had a letter from him yesterday, his dad says hello."

"Indeed," says Snape. The boy's friendship with Draco Malfoy's haughty offspring had been the subject of considerable consternation to his parents, but Ginny had seen to it that Harry kept his reservations to himself. Snape had, somewhat uncharacteristically, withheld comment on the matter. He doesn't know the Malfoy boy personally, but he knows better than most what influences he has to contend with. "Grand plans for the last of your holidays?" he says, hoping to draw Albus out.

"There's a harvest festival in the village," says Albus, shrugging. "Scorpius is keen to go. He likes to watch the Muggles. Doesn't see much of them up there." His voice betrays the bored indifference of one to whom Muggles are in no way exotic. The Potter children had all attended Muggle primary schools, and paid occasional visits to their Muggle cousins, much to the consternation of Petunia Dursley.

How the years have changed us, Snape reflects to himself, as the boy begins to prattle enthusiastically about the old motorbike that his elder brother is mending with the help of his grandfather, whose enthusiasm for Muggle technology has proven a congenital oddity. There are days when the first forty years of his own life seem a distant nightmare, others when he wakes in his bed at night, clutching the faded scar upon his forearm, unable to breathe until the sound of Luna's snoring brings him back to himself. He had never envisioned a future like this, full of long, idle summer days and the conversation of children who are destined to outlive the memory of the conflicts that had divided their parents.

Snape takes Albus home to Orchard Cottage with him for tea, where they find Luna and Harry already seated, the table laid before them.

"What is this treachery?" Snape growls at Luna. "You told me you required solitude to complete your observations for the last chapter of your book."

"Yes, dear," says Luna placidly, and Snape notices the way the afternoon sun at the kitchen window catches the strands of silver in her hair. "But as Harry doesn't peer over my shoulder and complain that the Nargles don't move enough, I find his company more an aid to concentration than otherwise."

Snape huffs and steals a scone from her plate.

"You should get home as soon as you've eaten," Harry tells Albus. "Your mum wants you packed and ready before dinner, you've got an early start in the morning."

"Wouldn't have to leave early if you'd let James take me," Albus points out.

Harry snorts. "What, on the bike? Dream on, son. Your mum won't even let me ride it yet."

When the table is cleared, and Albus has set off for Phoenix House at a trot, Harry, Luna, and Snape move out to the garden, where they sip glasses of Luna's homemade honey wine until the sun has vanished below the horizon. Then Luna excuses herself to her laboratory, leaving Snape and Harry to sit in companionable silence.

"Dudley phoned yesterday," Harry says suddenly, as though just remembering a bit of news he'd meant to share. "My cousin, you know. Turns out, his youngest—David, he's the same age as Lils—got a Hogwarts letter two weeks ago. They kept it quiet at first, because Petunia went 'round the twist when she heard, but Dudley put his foot down, and so they're meeting us at the platform next week."

Snape lifts his head and looks at Harry square on. "Well, well, well," he breathes. "Vernon Dursley's grandson, a wizard." He gives a small smile and meets Harry's eyes. "I'm rather glad I never killed him, now."

Harry blinks in astonishment, as though this is the last thing he expected to hear Snape say. And then his laugh, louder and deeper than when he was a boy, rolls out over the downs like a wave from the ocean.

Up in her laboratory, through the open window, the sound of Harry's laughter wafts in to Luna with the sea breeze. A second later, Snape's joins it. Luna looks up, listens, and smiles.

Love has done this, she thinks. Love, the deepest and strangest magic of them all.

fin

(27 August 2007 - 25 August 2009)


End file.
